John Randall
John Randall has been a trash collector, a copy editor, and an attorney. He likes firewood, the sky, and the First Amendment. His poetry has appeared in Atlanta Review, DMQ Review, and Florida Review. He has been nominated for a Pushcart and Best of the Net. Online he is johnbrandall.com.
3 AM Eternal
Just a speck of lucidity
there in the early morning
used diaper kicked to the floor
I can’t quite see him but I know
he’s there, on his final throne
in the bathroom of what
when they built the house
my parents called the maid’s
room but it was really just an
extra bedroom until my wife
and I made it into our room until
my dad couldn’t do the stairs to
their bedroom anymore so now I
am sleeping on the couch which
allows me to hear when he gets up
thump thump thump goes the cane
and I have to go too so I use the
small bathroom near the back door
which shares a wall with the one he’s in
and I can hear the dull porcelain sound of
him occasionally shifting his weight until he
is done and I am done and as I’m going back
to the couch I ask into the dim light
Are you there, Dad? He answers with the
voice he used to have, bright and direct and
curious. Yes, that’s a good idear—he hangs
onto that r—Yes, I am still here, thanks for
checking on me. Two men up early with their
prost(r)ates tinkling in the dark of December,
the flag across the lake whipping in the breeze
and kept bright by a bulb from the ground facing
up into the night and staying bright until the morning.
