Lawrence

the tea I handed him-
Constant Comment
after spaghetti dinners
his old, dusty box fan
in the bedroom, one June
oscillating our pillow talk
about life and death, happy.
He was my oak tree.
We once walked thirteen miles
barefoot on the shore
my daughter splashing
through the imprints of his feet
or being carried.
Buddy, by my side
if I ever thought he wasn’t
he met my eyes.
I’m drinking it again
and I just prayed to every God
through hot, gushing, tears
to please take this one’s soul in,
Please, show This One the way.