He hinted at times that I was a bastard and I told him to listen to Brahms, and I told him to learn to paint and drink and not be dominated by women and dollars
but he screamed at me, For Christ’s Sake remember your mother, remember your country, you’ll kill us all!...

I move through my father’s house (on which he owed $8,000 after 20 years on the same job) and look at his dead shoes the way his feet curled the leather, as if he was angrily planting roses, and he was, and I look at his dead cigarette, his last cigarette
and the last bed he slept in that night, and I feel I should remake it but I can’t, for a father is always your master even when he’s gone; I guess these things have happened time and again but I can’t help thinking

             to die on a kitchen floor at 7 o’clock in the morning
             while other people are frying eggs
             is not so rough
             unless it happens to you.

I go outside and pick an orange and peel back the bright skin; things are still living: the grass is growing quite well, the sun sends down its rays circled by a Russian satellite, a dog barks senselessly somewhere, the neighbors peek behind blinds. I am a stranger here, and have been (I suppose) somewhat the rogue, and I have no doubt he painted me quite well (the old boy and I fought like mountain lions) and they say he left it all to some woman in Duarte but I don’t give a damn—she can have it: he was my old man

            and he died.

inside, I try on a light blue suit
much better than anything I have ever worn
and I flap the arms like a scarecrow in the wind
but it’s no good:

I can’t keep him alive
no matter how much we hated each other.

we looked exactly alike, we could have been twins
the old man and I: that’s what they
said. he had his bulbs on the screen
ready for planting
while I was lying with a whore from 3rd street.

very well. grant us this moment: standing before a mirror
in my dead father’s suit
waiting also
to die.