I wake in the still of the night
and scribble a note in the dark.
I wake at dawn; in the half-light
puzzle over the hieroglyphs
whose meaning I cannot now
make out – and suddenly
catch a glimpse of my father’s life
at eighty-six,
half-waking
on his side of a half empty bed
to a semblance of light, a mockery
of consciousness,
lost in time, groping for things,
words, explanations,
anything to hold on to,
no matter how silly it sounds
to those who cannot understand
that figures on invoices
forever refuse
to add up, buttons on dishwashers
wander, and the phone
only connects you to strangers.
whypoetry 