What does he think, my father,
looking out his new tame window,
his life gently narrowed to a room
along a hall of rooms? Not memories.
“The things you remember,” shaking
his head, as if I’d invented my youth
but he couldn’t say for sure.
I’ve stopped asking for pieces
of information to straighten out
some little part of family history,
and have become his accomplice
as we sit and look out his window
past the bird-feeder without seed
to some general town. When I leave
I remind myself again to bring
bird-seed to fill something up here
although I’ll forget as he forgets
to notice the absences around us.