Every day, this day, Dad


I think of the softness of the top of your head

Of us building a bookshelf and swearing: you are like a T-Rex, I said

Your X-ray eyes still, so sea-blue and warm

Having a beer on Christmas Day at a dive in St. Anne’s

How loud you like to play opera and Meatloaf

Even a whole concert: you would go off and watch it. “He’s exceptionally talented!”

The local drinkers shared good wishes with us, and the river passed the window, sluggish

Over your bed it says PT IS BLIND, you see some things anyway

The slurry-red bookcase you left a toy T-Rex on for me to find

They drilled your head into a V and took so much away

What they left is holy
Invisible to them

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