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In Passing
 
Seated on a cement bench,
city owned, with advertisement
posting a 1-800-Divorce number
against my back, overlooking
a park with a playground:
children: a pond;  ducks;
I eat my lunch.
 
The day is bright,
the season young.
 
I still find it hard to imagine
the reason I am here.
 
Behind me, St. Joseph's lurking shadow.
Like a tumor, the hospice center.
 
Dad, in the process of dying
do you still find a certain 
rarity in life?
 
Are there days....
 
moments perhaps
which stand out?
 
Is it possible to acknowledge
anything earthbound, the skylight
as it splendors itself across the bed?
 
You've grown quiet.  Resting.  Restless?
 
This morning as I boarded the city bus,
I spotted a group of sparrows zig-zagging
across the sidewalk toward a crust of bread.
 
They reminded me of something, insignificant
to most, yet, you would have marveled at.
Their bickering.  
 
I wish I knew.
 
How to respond
to your loosening,
dad, I wish I knew.

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