Today's poem is by David Starkey

Coda
        —For A.G., 1928-2020

Others will picture him on the bench,
draped in a black robe, or in tennis whites,
running that other court, returning
every volley. They will summon his insistence
on maintaining a home number
in the phonebook. When the drunks
and "misdemeaniants" called late at night
to share their grievances, he heard them out.

His final years, he gained in nobility
as he grew frailer, his broad face pared
to its essence, distant Scotland
called up in his pale green eyes.
His greetings to visitors became courtly,
his affinity for his wife electric,
her presence as constant as a clock.

I think I will remember most his voice,
quavering but honest, and still inflected
with a note of Midwestern irony,
also the way his hand felt when you shook it—
trembling, yes, but warm and full of welcome.

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Copyright © 2023 David Starkey All rights reserved
from Cutting It Loose
Publisher
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission