These lawn chairs and the chaise lounge

    of bulky redwood were purchased for my father

    twenty years ago， then plumped down in the yard

    where he seldom went when he could still work

    and never had stayed long. His left arm

    in a sling， then lopped off， he smoked there or slept

    while the weather lasted， watched what cars passed，

    read stock reports， counted pills，

    then dozed again. I didn‘t go there

    in those last weeks， sick of the delusions

    they still maintained， their talk of plans

    for some boat tour or a trip to the Bahamas

    once he‘d recovered. Under our willows，

    this old set‘s done well： we’ve sat with company，

    read or taken notes—although the arm rests

    get dry and splintery or wheels drop off

    so the whole frame‘s weakened if it’s hauled

    across rough ground.  Of course the trees，

    too， may not last： leaves storm down，

    branches crack off， the riddled bark

    separates， then gets shed. I have a son， myself，

    with things to be looked after. I sometimes think

    since I‘ve retired， sitting in the shade here

    and feeling the winds shift， I must have been filled

    with a child dread you could catch somebody‘s dying

    if you got too close. And you can‘t be too sure.