Happy Birthday

For A. E. Parrott
2. 2. 2012

There’s nothing I can buy a man
who’s one hundred seventeen
and dead. Fashionable clothes
were never your style,
even while alive—
nor electronics,
except you watched
I Love Lucy
on an old rabbit ear TV.
The set
suited the show.

The word app
would make you think
of apple
while waiting
for a second syllable
that never comes.
Silicon and plastic
are not as tasty.

Your music was your soul
but the hands stopped working
and the hearing
faded until the world
roared at you
in relative silence.

There’s nothing I can give.
I only want to take

another look
at your kindly face.

The turn from humor to somber is abrupt. I may revise.


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