Pilot Light

At last even “Happy Birthday” becomes a torch song,labored breathing a fair renditionsince we all know fire’s affair with oxygen,my father pining for himself simplyby shutting heavy lids now and thenlike those of a thousand-year-old tortoise.He stares at each of us hungrily,approximates a saint in his moment of weaknessthat drags on because his body leaves himno choice like an intact pilastergleaming in some rubble. Last week’s dodderingresembles dancing and his empty handshakes savagely as with a match.He’s run twenty miles just to remind mewhoever’s in the house then should turnoff the spigots for winter, as responses gosnow always proportionate, the way a kisscan cover up a world of doubt. I bend closeas when just a kid I snuck downto the basement and stared at what showedand warmed nothing, only burned, kept burning.