who’d put down the drink–– decades of shouting coiled in quiet––
sat forward on his folding chair: What should he do about the son
who wouldn’t speak, who posted I wish he were dead. I offered
one of our bromides, and he stared, twisting fingers and lips.
Where was the angel to lift him by the hair
as he twisted in the avernal current? If I have wings, they’re dog’s wings,
my old body a dog’s, floating over the cold eye.