I remember him sitting at the kitchen table, cold

Formica, looking as if he’d already made up his mind; his world

around him: the old roll-top desk he refinished years ago

covered with discarded newspapers, crystal-glass

ashtrays filled with tobacco, scraps of paper, things he knew

he couldn’t afford to lose.  Outside, his city garden waited:

tomatoes and lettuce, cucumbers still dormant.  His almost-grown

children behind him just beyond his reach as they

always were.  He looked resigned, like he couldn’t see the point

of making his way through what had always been

right in front of him.  He stumbled the street looking

for what he needed, as if he could find the day

I ran off.  Behind me, my father standing in the doorway,

his bulky body blocking my way, his voice

a whisper in the dark.