I hear nothing more as I drop the phone.
Resting my head in my hands, I let go.
I picture his face, the way he spits on the ground
as the wad of Red Man in his cheek seeps its juices.
I hear him whistling and humming,
working with wood, creating masterpieces.
I smell the fresh sawdust.
I listen intently to his songs and wishes.
His last moments haunt me;
I see nothing that resembles the man.
I want to go.
I want to run back to my childhood
of Sunday morning comics… sawdust… tobacco.