He Was Always In There, Somewhere. Poem by Dan Reynolds

He sat in a U shape mostly
Stick close by
Baby-cup drinks beaker
And the head would move
Almost tortoise-like
From TV to me, then back

Then there were the relay-race conversations
They’d ask, “ How ye dayin? ”
The reply, a guttural explosion
of mucus-rattling mumbles.
They’d look to me, imploring
He’d look at me, frustrated
I’d look at him, accepting
“He’s daying fine.” I’d tell them

Then there were the ones nobody got.
“Come again? ”
“Whit wiz that? ”
and after four or five attempts
almost exhausted both patience and vocal chords
the loudest, “Aw F*ck aff! ” you ever heard.
Clear as crystal.

And as the obscenity erupted,
the facial muscles
behind the stroke-battered mask,
could not hide that glint
That smiling eye
My, old Dad.