The Last Time I Saw Him

Was his face a charmed occasion,
the last time I saw him,
laughing like a boy at a baseball
game, rooting for his team?
His words were always chicken soup
when I was sick.
He knew ten thrilling things to tell
me,
then silence. I clutched a TV Guide
with the cover torn off and I was
bored to tears at his deathbed for
five hours.
A wise man,
his last words were set in a
crown of jewels,
I wanted the best of times to
heal him but he never came back to see
"that" through.
He did not strain to lie.
He just wanted to "go home" and
weakly said so.
The last time I dreamed about him,
he had that funny old hat on,
the catalyst of a dead-era.

His grandchildren called him Pup-Pup,
and he gave them quarters
for presents.
The politics of a family came from
a handful of cities,
he was brother of "eight".
They all loved each other deeply.
He shared his money,
and the last time I saw him,
he had given me some.

He wanted the next Pope to tell
him what to do,
but he never lived that long.

Once, when I was young, he gave me
an old metal clairinet. I could
never play it. But, Dad could.
Like a raving beauty in the wee
hours underneath an eternal moon.