He Was Tapping His Foot
(Ginger McGilvray)

He was tapping 
his foot, 
under that white knit blanket in that 

dying bed in the 
nursing home. 

Hot white August
afternoon, Round Rock
My sister, our cousin and I somehow piled
up and on or around
that slim bed, with my dad, still
tall, still
handsome, still

laughing and
talking as
the three of
us do.

My dad, tired tumored
mind, working on

breathing again.

One of us noticed it,
and pointed,


there it was. How he had tapped
his foot
a thousand times before
to someone like

Neil Diamond,
Marty Robins,
even some funny stuff like

I want to say
it was Johnny Cash singing
Sunday Morning Coming Down,
one of dad’s all time favorite tunes.

Or it could have
just as well
been Willie
City of New Orleans.

Oh yeah.

Dad “couldn’t stand” Willie’s voice, unless
he was singing
that one.

My dad’s
couldn’t help it,
every time.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap

That was the last time.

1 comment:

Jeanne Desy said...

A lovely poem and memory.