Don Kimball

Prayer for My Father

Now let it be cold the night he goes;
let there be snow

which softens the walk, no summer
mosquitoes to swat;

let this be done, so we might hear
their rubber boots

galumph... and be mindful of him,
as men, with care-

worn faces, carry him out. Let him
go, now, in dream’s

laborious racket, snoring
in that old house

he fought to keep, where no doctors
will pause to poke

and prod an old man’s idling heart;
make evergreens

moan, while they sway in wintry winds;
with branches low

burdened by snow, bow to snuff out
a cold fire. Leave

those blood hounds — howling, when no
master comes round —

howling all night. Let him go out with noise,
while there’s still time.