For My Father at 67

I'm so much like you, at last,
And I'm so glad. I love you,
No matter the stern judgements,
The grave lapses of attention,
As if you were living in another,
Even more far-fetched world.
The early-morning waking. The limp.

I grew up thinking I was like Mom,
And Janice like you. Hardly the truth.
What clinicians might call depression,
The growing deafness, the sharp laugh-
It's everything I ever wanted,
To be like you. Someday we'll both wake up

In Paradise, and you will hug me firmly,
And I you, and Mom will stand by smiling.
I promise by then I'll make it up to you,
Being both a poet and an art critic.
...