Hauling My Father Away
The man who hauled my father away
arrived at the trailer park in a black Chevy Blazer
with funereal curlicues painted on the back window.
The trailer was disintegrating, my father was big
and though it was a grey February day
the man was sweating in his black polyester.
When the wheel on the gurney hit the hole on the floor
my father flopped sideways like a tuna
trying to catapult itself out the door.
My brother and I laughed
in spite of ourselves.
We were so tired.
And our father was so gone.
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