Revenant

He arrives just as I left him—
on the gravel road between the fields,
wearing a lopsided smile
and round glasses with a thick
dark brown frame,
a DuMaurier between two
yellowed fingers (one
with a nail that looks like
the inside of a walnut)

He holds my small hand
in his great paw
or reaches across,
arm pressing me back into the seat
of the burgundy Buick
as he slows for the Stop sign
(seatbelts dangling,
the buckle knocking
against the door)

It is as if there had never
been a hospital bed
or matted head and violent
eyes rolling around all the terrors
of life or age or morphine.
I can’t conjure him, though—
he comes just
as he pleases (gold
Timex loose around his wrist,
whispering his leaving)