Hunger

Six days before he died, my dad
slumped in the gloom of the common room
where they park food trays before
the reluctant. I found him colorless,
tongue pushed forward
defying food

at the end
of my four-hour drive.
To brighten his spirit,
I wheeled him out to bask
in shades of scarlet maples,
amber marigolds, the reckless fuchsia
of late-blooming impatiens.
Moving from shadow, the biting air
melted; as in the old tale,
I unlayered Dad.

With the beam of warmth
that drew us out, I recalled his childhood
name for me. I’ll call you Little Sunshine NOW,
he declared, flinging my arm
around shoulders just unwrapped
with the same gesture.

Leaning in
to complete his hug, I kissed his cheek.
Hungrily, he turned to nuzzle my neck

making up for lost time,
or anticipating it.