Came home.
Planted trees, mowed grass.
His model train collection grew
to fill a room. He had a wife he loved,
two sons, a grandson on the way.
He didn’t want to die.

He’d felt the little bump
three years or so after ‘Nam.
In 1979, the doc said no need
to worry. In 1992, still no problem.
By 2010 a baseball-sized
lump in his right arm.
Time to worry.

Scans, biopsies, MRIs.
It was cancer,
but what kind?
No one asked about chemicals
in ‘Nam. That was long ago.
He didn’t want to die.

I no longer cry at night,
at least not often. I’ve
learned to use the weed-whip,
but the weeds grow tall.
I did buy a new car by myself,
but damn it, I don’t want

to learn to set mousetraps
in the basement. I don’t want
to grow tomatoes for my BLT’s.
I don’t want to choose the wine
when friends come for dinner.

I want him to hold my hand
when we sit in church.
I want him to bring me
toast and tea when I’m sick.
I want him to fix the faucet
and clean the shower drain.

I need him to trace the line only he knows
from my brow around to my chin.