End zone

Slumped and somnolent,
my father smells
of urine and stasis,

his eyes half-lidded,
his shirt half-buttoned,
his catheter —

part of him now, no
less than the wheelchair–

leaking from
his belly like
a poorly kept secret.

I dream his body
a piñata at a party
no one believes,

an imitation life
waiting to break beneath

the blow of some blind
and ultimate kindness,

the real thing finally
spilling and free —

the boy who gazed stars
through a cardboard tube,

the teenager too skinny
for football, dreaming
the end run into open field

(how the crowd cheers),

the young man who named
and cradled me,

his cloistered heart
and clever mind —

the bright arc of
his particulars,
before captivity.

I dream the honesty
of organic death
too long obstructed,

the end run, finally —
there it is, Dad,
lush turf and daylight —

how you dart through
the opening, fleet
and agile,

head high,
eyes bright, how
you gather speed and

keep going, keep going;
nothing can stop you now

(how the crowd cheers).

Tags: aging, caretaking, creative writing, death, dying, loss, nursing homes, parents, poem, poetry, spirituality