These lawn chairs and the chaise lounge

of bulky redwood were purchased for my father

twenty years ago, then plumped down in the yard

where he seldom went when he could still work

and never had stayed long. His left arm

in a sling, then lopped off, he smoked there or slept

while the weather lasted, watched what cars passed,

read stock reports, counted pills,

then dozed again. I didn’t go there

in those last weeks, sick of the delusions

they still maintained, their talk of plans

for some boat tour or a trip to the Bahamas

once he’d recovered. Under our willows,

this old set’s done well: we’ve sat with company,

read or taken notes—although the arm rests

get dry and splintery or wheels drop off

so the whole frame’s weakened if it’s hauled

across rough ground. Of course the trees,

too, may not last: leaves storm down,

branches crack off, the riddled bark

separates, then gets shed. I have a son, myself,

with things to be looked after. I sometimes think

since I’ve retired, sitting in the shade here

and feeling the winds shift, I must have been filled

with a child dread you could catch somebody’s dying

if you got too close. And you can’t be too sure.