Being Dad

Strangely I think of myself as my father,

not just alike him— he, himself—

as I take a tottering step to the bathroom

in the middle of the night, off balance.

Having lost his woman did not describe him 

completely, more than anything else;

nor, for that matter, did it Bentley, his father.

Nor does it me, a third wobbling widower,

knowing that life can still be lived well,

and people have already done it.