Mask
        Paul Dwight Lampe 1927-2013

His soul was like the raccoon that foraged
through the cans on our porch, came up to the door
begging, then swaggering into the house, back

into our lives. He was all around us, each walk
through the forest we saw him: wing for hair,
leaves for mouth, stream for skin. They told me,

we heard your father's voice last night singing,
The limb of that oak played its violin to heaven.
No one remembers his name but the squirrels

he used to feed: Old Man, Wire Hands. Meanwhile,
rain fills each empty shoe. A lost shoe on the moon fills
with stardust. Meanwhile, each courage teacher covers

her eyes with brown pebbles, removes a periwinkle shell
battered from tumble. A lawyer soothes his throat with honey
bees. Each day leads to the next. The tin can of peas

on the porch is licked empty. My father's soul dances
along the porch, puffs and settles. Nature's gentleman
pokes through last night's supper.

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Copyright © 2020 Laurie Byro All rights reserved
from Journal of New Jersey Poets
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission