Dad sits at the kitchen table
and leafs through The Times,
and waits for the kettle to whistle,
and waits for the ring,
the call.
In the family room, uncle
fiddles with Mozart
on the white keys
while sister gazes out the window
and looks for the Dipper.
They wait for the ring,
the call.
In Dad's favorite, brown chair,
brother looks through the scores of meaningless games
and waits for the ring,
the call.
I sit on my bed
tracing the cracks in the ceiling,
they form a Christmas stocking.
I wait for the ring,
the call.
One ring, one call.
In my room, the only light
comes from the sky,
and hits the floor in front of me.
Dad wipes my eyes
with his damp tissue,
and says He has taken him
to somewhere good,
to become everyone's Grandpa.