Recycling - D. R. James

When Dad had his easy operation

he quit smoking, cold turkey,

and Peggy and I traced and crayoned

the encyclopedia’s glossy plates.

I gave him a cardinal, a goldfinch,

a blue jay and still know those basic colors,

their cocked depictions. Today, near

blind, he’s ready to hand back over

whatever can’t be moved—some

’20s textbooks, Grandpa’s elaborate camera,

the table saw that hasn’t cut much in years and

years. And I’m trying my best to feel sad

about now but grope around another corner

instead: I see I should settle again,

start collecting for sons who, in another

thirty-five years, will need to help

clear out a house, haul away

quaint power tools, inlaid tables,

floor lamps, a love seat, an assortment

of dusty cup hooks and nails, and

several odd poems featuring birds.

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D. R. James, retired from nearly 40 years of teaching college writing, literature, and peace studies, lives with his psychotherapist wife in the woods near Saugatuck, Michigan. His latest of ten collections is Mobius Trip (Dos Madres Press). https://www.amazon.com/author/drjamesauthorpage