I cannot wholly decide
about my father’s resolve not
to speak
or seek out texts
or make arrangements
except perhaps to the pillow
and the blankets.
Was it for him, or for us,
or was he ‘in denial’
when he preferred to drift and doze
to music or ambient conversation
as if some unusual act
would make the thing too real?
That adherence to routine,
The Times and the radio, was it
because the stream of time
remained too precious to interrupt
early,
as when he waited for the concert to
end
before unfolding himself from the
car?
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