by Cornelius Eady
And at last, I get the phone call. The blues rolls into
my sleepy ears at five A.M., a dry, official voice from
my father's hospital. A question, a few quick facts,
and my daddy's lying upstate on the coolin' floor.
Death, it seems, was kinder to him in his last hour
than life was in his last four months.
Death, who pulls him to a low ebb, then slowly
floods over his wrecked body like a lover.
Cardio-vascular collapse, the polite voice is telling
me, but later my cousin tells me, he arrives on the
ward before they shut my father's eyes and mouth to
see the joy still resting on his face from the moment
my daddy finally split his misery open.