In Praise of My Father’s Adam’s Apple

An old Adam’s apple glistened on my father-
My old father- on my father’s old throat.
After a shave, after a save; after he came back from the hospital, after all concerned had lost all their hope
and then, regained.

My Adam’s apple glistens too in the morning light
(like father, like his son?)
After I shit, bath, brush, floss and shave.
To pull a long day and a quieter one too as one pull the wools over one’s eyes
and get drowned in the matinee’s terrific irony-
Why, that is my usual business.

I wonder what I will regain.
His mullishness, perhaps?
Before the end of the time and before the end of
my elongated days.

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