My father erupted out of bed,
shoveled water furrows,
measured six-week hay crops,
three-day waterings,
daily corn pickings.
The cacophony of television
now announces time, thirty-minute news,
pause of a basketball game,
punctuated by bathroom visits,
two meals, slow decline to bed.
My father ordered
his life on index cards, slipped
into a sweat-lined pocket.
He wanders through Wednesday, Saturday,
blender days, kaleidoscope weeks.
I wait for my father’s powdered face
against a velvet backdrop–
will ride home on eulogies,
my hands will curl around his shovel,
dig furrows in our garden.