Agent Orange
By Peter Barlow

When the light of day starts to wane,
And I am in the right frame of mind,
I go by Dad’s place,
With the irritable, restless nurses checking email and texting in the kitchen,
And the white-washed silence that makes the spirit shriek,
The blank, distant looks of residents whose old memories were usurped with wandering misgivings,

He sits quietly in his wheel chair,
With the low-maintenance buzz cut and unshaven face,
His old self would have hated,
Trying to push himself up and force old muscles to coalesce into the effortless movements he once knew,

I try to remember Dad for who he was, and how he would have liked to have died,
Tired from a full day of golf,
Traveling the Amalfi Coast with friends,
And telling jokes and stories over decaf and Breyer’s Ice Cream,

Dad would have died listening to The Platters with a puzzle in front of him,
He would have died listening to the rambling chatter of auctioneers while they sold somebody’s trinkets,
And he would have died satisfied,
On his own terms,
In his own house,
In his own chair,

But now,
Because of Johnson’s politics and Nixon’s pride,
Dad will die a death he didn’t want,
Where his mind wanders without pause,
And his legs don’t cooperate for a stroll,

Dad won’t get his golf course days,
An empty chair will sit at the auctionhouse,
The Amalfi Coast will remain just a picture,
And young men,
Who become old men too soon,
will continue playing pawn to prideful politicians.