My God, we wanted to connect,
that day the doctor said
he had a 50-50 chance,

that day my father said,
from his hospital bed,
I always loved you, Son,

that day before he died,
that day he ripped his shaver
from my ink-stained hand,

along with all the baseball bats,
the pencils, hammers, shovels—
every tool I'd never used

to his satisfaction.
He held them in his weakened hand,
a clutch of puzzle pieces

a forearm's length above the bed.
He lay, I stood,
the problem still unsolved,

and the old duet of soundless
Why's?
sang out one more time.

Volume 1, Issue 2, 2007