Counting Down the Counted Up

A quarter of a century
Since your father died of starved lungs,

And the obits, provincial
As well as national, still

Kick out daily entries,
Ninety-something years old,

Born before he was.
He used to return

From doctor visits,
Boasting the doc said

He’d live until ninety—
Not even three-quarters

Of the way there when he died
Before the millennium,

But obits make you feel he’s not
Over until no one’s older.