An awkward unbeautiful ferry,
too big for the room it sailed in—
whose slanting metal bars
did nothing to keep the rough sea out,
but appeared to keep my father in,
clinging as he did to one
with his too-thin arm,
and tilting his gaze
to see around them: such
a transforming, grateful, smile
for an offering so small: such
mundane conversation. The bed
with its hanging trapeze—
a sailing circus none of us wanted
to witness—intended they said,
to assist in raising himself
from the bed, though we knew
the truth: a hangman’s triangular
noose dangling all those weeks
over his weary head.