Rough leather skin
Firm handshake
Sometimes as painful as that rusty
gate screaming in its hinges
With a nod or a grin
Wide as mothers open arms
You’d call us over
Telling silly stories and jokes
But all I’d recall was cleaning
agent, damp autumn leaves
The assuring weight of your hand on
my shoulder
The cologne you’d wear on Sundays
That friendly, shriveled face
Like a raisin
And the raspy voice
Like iron grinding iron
Never showed, never said
What you used to do with our house
in our absence
Never dreamed we were wrong to trust you