Delano's Bar and Restaurant,
Amherst, Mass., Good Friday, 1984,
1:25 p.m.
They always leave it . . .
that small circle of wine
in the bottom of the glass
as if there's something
down there they can't take in.
The dregs, they call it; the bottom
is what's there . . .
the finish, the
end. It's yours
when you take it
all in.
My father greeted death this way:
he waited until we were alone,
his last words long gone,
five or six days of pure silence,
four tears,
then a smile,
but nothing left --
no little circle,
the glass
handed to me
clean.
The goblet crying for wine
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