The vulnerable, bare feet of old men protrude from sheets on trolleys in white halls - my father's long since buried to bone; now this elder poet's uncalloused as his soul. I offer daisies or a perfumed rose to hold his eye against the hospital's blank walls of terror, then leave into August's sun sticky, thick as a white pull of taffy. I don't mourn death, but what my father's rage and blame could never give which this man yields abundantly. Gifts simple as a daisy's eye, a breath of rose, are replied to with a "Thank you," a kiss on hand or cheek, as at the far end of life's long corridor he exits, blowing kisses. Emptiness is bearable but filling it brings tears. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE COLOR SERGEANT by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON BALLROOM DARK by CLARENCE MAJOR THE PLACE OF PEACE by EDWIN MARKHAM |