I am the son of a coffin maker; death will have no surprises for me.
This was my life: Rise before birds open their eyes,
smooth the blanket while she still sleeps.
Fold corners hospital style.
Year in and year out, this was my life:
Heat oatmeal left for me on the stove,
press toilet paper to my nicked chin,
walk one mile, warm-coated and wool-capped
to Heminway & Bartlett Silk Thread Factory,
be on the shop floor by six.
I could be measuring oak boards for
grieving families, I told myself,
always glad of the quit-work
whistle at noon on Saturdays,
bag of Necco wafers for the kids.
I have lived more years than my father
and his father before him, both gone before 55.
I persisted through a world war, then another,
and a sort of peace that follows,
that settles into old lives.
No longer sure if my wife looks on me with love,
I know my coneflowers turn blue faces to the sun.
My tomatoes drink gratefully from my garden hose
before she slices, herbs, and simmers
them for the soup waiting for me on the stove.
(For my grandfather, Charles Sweeney, 1890?-1955?)
