A urine collection bottle shaped just for bedridden men
leans in the bathroom sink, this time
collecting the drip-drip of a broken
faucet, the water bloody with rust.
An over-stuffed blue Lazy-boy,
arms dark where food-dirtied hands
rested while the television blared,
cups stained and frayed towels in its cushions.
On the drop-leaf table next to the chair,
a stiff and yellowed doily lies drunkenly under
a glass serving bowl offering up the remnants
of a last meal of chicken noodle soup.
Also on the table a copy of my mother
and father’s wedding bulletin and a picture
of his father and two other men dressed like 1920’s gangsters.
Numbers and notes doodled on paper scraps.
A lottery ticket, its corner trapped
beneath the soup bowl. Maybe the fruit flies
know if it held a winning number, if my father,
after death, became a winner after all.