(for Clifford Ernest Polland
May 21, 1952–March 19, 2001)

You pop in less frequently now,
but, when I see a handsome older man
walking into Target, about your height,
hair and beard the color of a storybook cloud,
I think—not for the first time—
that could be you.

73 today, if you’d stuck around,
which you never thought you would,
having brought with you an innate sense
of your mortality. From infancy,
you could not stomach cow’s milk,
struggled to gain weight, worrying
every female in your family.

But somehow you thrived and grew tall
and played basketball and baseball—
even with your oddly plumbed heart—
and used your good hands to fix engines
on large boats and small cars
and came to love me.

Now I see you in the tall, slender man
with glasses squinting at the large
black-and-white photograph
in the art museum. That could be you,
I think, watching from a respectful distance,
sizing up your own sizable skills,
comparing them to those of the master
on the wall.

Or maybe I have it wrong. Maybe
you wouldn’t have vanished at only 48.
After a long life, you might just stand tall
and admire the beauty bestowed
upon you, upon the world in general,
grateful and without judgment,
as you did again and again
for me.