You tell me that after
 your grandmother died
 she turned the shower on
 in your house at 3 a.m.,
 and left a dripping
 towel on the floor.

 

 A week ago when your father died
 the side view mirror
 folded towards you
 as you were speeding
 down 101.  The radio
 flicked on at the same instant.
 
 For a week your father
 has made his final rounds, visiting
 his children, tapping
 some on the wrist

 

 and throwing a window open
 on a calm afternoon
 for your sister.  You  
 report the air ringing

 

 in your garage.  You
 found a wrench thrown
 to the garage floor,
 and the cover on the Jag

 

 removed.  What
 am I to make of this?
 
 You tell me your mother
 feels hurt, ignored
 even in these final

 

 days.