Daddy was full of wise words and wisecracks
he’d say “up and at em,” and “get ‘er done”
and though I still drag my feet waking
(for I love my bed and dreaming just a little too much)
I did …”git ‘er done”
too young in fact: I worked like him, like a bee buzzing
filling the minutes hours days weeks months years decades
I never missed what I never had,
until now when I wonder ‘what if’
while Daddy sits in his chair not wanting to rise
I want to echo his words, I want to say
“remember what you’d say about sympathy?
we all know where it can be found”
I want to scream, “get up, Dad, get ‘er done!”
instead I murmur these things to my own self
to cold bones and stiff knees
while I drag out of bed slowly waking
much like I was at ten, wanting to sleep a few minutes more
