THE ARC

I was over at the house putting
up a screen, had to cut some
wood for a frame.  Dad sat
and watched me work.
He’d bought the hardware cloth,
asked me to put it up, trusting
I’d do the whole project
the right way or good enough.  He
doesn’t see the details
any more.

Afterward we sat and talked.
I’m going up to the river,
I said, With Joe Conti, remember
him?  Sure I do,
he said, We argued about which pan
was big enough for the
spaghetti.
I’d forgotten the whole scene,
it was years ago,
dinner at the fishing cabin.

What I remember was coming round
a bend in the river.  It
was a beautiful afternoon at the Arc.
My Dad was stretched out,
his hat over his face,
sleeping in the short grass back
from the bank,
close enough to hear the water.

2001