There are the quiet times, too,
when somehow I almost forget

this aching awareness of you,
your absences, sullen, prolonged

departures from the way we planned
piecing together the parallels

of model railway track, debating bends;
and how often, at golf, we’d drive

into opposite rough, disdaining
the fairway, to pincer the green

and halve, in six, an easy par-four;
or, fishing the wide bay, your rod

to port and mine angled starboard,
each of us riding his obstinate swell,

our tackles tangled under the boat,
snagged paternosters in conflict

tightened ambivalent lines—
just as it was with my father.