With Father’s Day around the bend
I racked my brain for quite a while
on gift ideas. My lifelong friend
is generous with a playful smile—
my mental scrapbook sports them all—
as he unwraps some little treasure,
entirely unaware how tall
I feel to offer simple pleasure.
At ninety-three it’s getting tough
to find a present he can use.
Some basement tools? He has enough
and they’re retired with no excuse.
Neckties are out. His crippled hands
do not cooperate as well
as they once did. The hour glass sands
have stolen more than I can tell.
Some sweet smoked salmon? Buckwheat honey?
Each year is its own precious gift,
and not too tied to food nor money.
Perhaps a chat will be that lift
as he recalls much younger days.
Or just a poorly crafted poem
drafted in a teary haze--
for last night Jesus called him home.
