Read to Me
Always, always his nose in a book
each night after dinner he’d read aloud
Now We Are Six
and all the rest, then
The Wind in the Willows
and as I grew, he taught me humour with
Cheaper by the Dozen,
and Onions in the Stew,
the horror of Lobo the King of Currumpaw,
delighted in mystery with Sherlock Holmes.
Poems he spoke from memory—
induced shivers with
Comes a breathing hard behind thee—
snuffle-snuffle through the night—
then calmed me singing Daddy’s Little Girl.
Once, before he lost his mind
he wrote a letter, quoted
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
and added if ever I found someone
with whom I could truly share my mind
I should marry him.
I guess he knew that would be a tough one.
He was long gone before I did,
never met my son,
doesn’t know his wife has outlived
just about everybody.
Sometimes I go to where he lies
and read him poems of my own.