Dave Lucas

Even here. Even now the heavy industry
of the everyday, making to be unmade,
where a word is the world between us.

I cannot remember the last meal I shared with my father.
Only those long last nights slipping him what ice chips
he could still stomach and then swabbing his chapped lips
with a wetted pink sponge.

I would be Diogenes. Swing my lamp
through these dishonest days in search.
I myself have looked the known world
over and given everything a new name.

I descended into the underworld again
in my dream and there for the umpteenth time 
stood my father in a plaid button-down shirt
and khakis a freshly lit pipe a wreath of smoke