Jig for my father (poem)

i was 42 when my father was born
and 26 when he died.
he smoked cigars
and read the Times
and laughed much more than he cried.

he always said two things at once
and rarely wiped his chin.
he rode a horse
in Central Park
and wore a gypsy ring.

i asked my dad what i should do.
he quickly said to me:
"hone your knife and
love your life
and walk out on the sea."

i saw my dad the other day
he was wafting down Broadway.
he said "can you smell
the fat in the air?"
and then he blew away.

i called, "when will we meet again?"
he said, "don't make a fuss.
we'll be together,
just like one
as soon as we're not us."

so i no longer look for dad
in the bubbles in my beer
or on the backs
of business cards.
in fact he's almost here.♦


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