This man
who is not
my father
is
my
father.
The other’s laugh:
“It’s not your turn but
he calls only for you! ”
And so I go
& clean him up
his skeleton thin body
splashed with urine & sh**.
I laugh & joke
with him.
He chuckles
as I tell him:
“Michael...you used to be
so full of crap
but sh**...now you’re not! ”
Lucky
our Irish sense of humour
extends this far
say anything with love and
it becomes so.
It is a tired old joke
but like a child he
pounces on its nuances
relishing each pause and stupid syllable!
I bathe
him
this man
who is not my father
gently as if he were
my child.
I sing
to him
all the old songs
I learned
at my father’s hands
as he bathed me.
“...why does my poor heart keep following you...”
We sing together
softly as I bathe him
dress him
anew
in the memory
of my father.
This man
who is not
my father
becomes
my father
as my hands learn
to care for him.
I settle
a pillow
behind
his head
wipe sweat
from his forehead
stroke
his hair
until  his sleep
is full
of dreams
...dreams.
*******