Inside Out
 
I'm 61, Dad -- your age when you died.
I say "you died," but don't believe you're dead.
Your body fell apart: you weren't inside.
 
You weren't found lurking there, all glassy-eyed,
Holding your breath forever -- in a bed
Like me, now, Dad. I'm your age when you died.
 
But dead? I'm not denying that I cried,
Not knowing where you'd gone, much left unsaid,
but when that body stopped, you weren't inside.
 
Some mornings in the glass I coincide
With what has got to be the thing you shed,
Your bulk, your eyes, at just the age you died --
 
I make a silly face, quick patricide,
To say that I'm not any body's head:
I've had a falling out. I'm not inside.
 
I stare at it, its tongue out ("Open wide!"),
A joke, and yet...I think I've lost the thread...
Oh yes, I'm 61, the age you died,
But when it falls apart, we aren't inside.