It has been almost 28 years

since my father died

when I was 28.  Then the cold shock of it

caught me by surprise.  I looked at him–

younger than I am now–

sitting at the old Formica table,

the clutter of his life all around: crystal-glass

ashtrays overflowing with tobacco

from the pipe he always smoked, endless

papers stacked on the desk in the corner

where my father sat night after night tabulating

the course of our lives.  Even the cracked and worn

linoleum sagged with the weight of it.  The old house already dying

around him; his garden out back where he toiled

in city summers, cucumbers and tomatoes

lining the kitchen sill where they sat until ripened.  I still remember

that moment watching my father

his eyes already glazed, gazing

out the window looking for something, already knowing

it would never bear fruit.