I got my brother's phone call wiping a cabinet
my eyes went electric side to side
he said our father appeared close to departure
white as a sheet-like a death-mask
though we had an inkling of the possible downturn
but the head plays tricks
with a child's idea, a rally
might plant dad's feet
back on solid ground
much to say, so little time
named Brian Junior
but growing up, my adoptive father
and I were not close
I rehearsed the
goodbye speech
for years I planned this eye to eye
to level with him
but now I could be too late
for forty miles
the Mazda speedometer
fingered eighty and ninety
passing cars as if parked
on the country back roads
against the relentless clock of
the last exhale and the lifted sheet
I swung into the valet entrance
below the sliding doors
my brother stood at the top
of the stairs
face expressionless, the color of slate
I bounded out of the car
breathless
asking
am I in time
the voice of my brother
like it came from a distance
the chest stab
a quarter-hour too late
now Junior but
no Senior
four years before
he told me during a siesta
he preferred cremation
my brother and I did as he wished
over the bridge with the guardian statues
Hope Memorial
scattered dad's ashes on the Cuyahoga river
prominent Cleveland radio announcer for thirty years
born a Canadian but
devoted Clevelander to the end
we didn't seem to finish
our issues
but yes, we did
