Look, I say to him as I water the last
of the hollyhocks, small bursts
sprouting from the yellow-stick stalks
that all summer long sported baby pink
frilly numbers fluttering like tutus.
I hope you’re up there—wherever there is
Why today, of all days, when I drive to a small town where you used to take me to stroll and shop, I get a huge hit of you, I have no idea.
Well, you don’t die during the week I visit—you want as much time as you can get on the planet, and you’re getting it—but you’re so close, you say, that you can see St. Peter when you’re in the shower.