Bob Hicok

A thank you of sorts note

One or both of my parents
will die soon and it will snow soon,
I'll make snow angels soon
across the yard, wing tip to wing tip
shoes are what my father wore
and I put shoe trees in
when he came home, I like one tree
more than all the others I know,
it turns left then right
around another tree
to devour the sun, grew an elbow
as a tone has grown
in my parents' voices
when they say goodbye, of a wrung bell
drowning, each having only ever had
one lover, one sight at night
for sixty percent of a century
is math, in case you hadn't noticed, I
have never worn a yellow scarf
in this poem until now that the end
is near, I'll be in words
the sunflower I never was in life
exactly what they wanted, or they
the dream gods but the actual gods
who kindly, I hope tenderly
screwed me into what has been
my only, my perfect existence