PERSON Poem: Dad Poem, by Whitney Weisenberg

My father is weak
from the pool,
from this disease that almost everyone
hasn’t heard of.
I.B.M.
I rub the towel
over the sides of each arm
left
and then
right.
I don’t ask
if he wants my help.
I silence his no
because water droplets turn
into slippery puddles.
into he slipped,
and then slipped away…
The air is hot enough to soak up the wetness,
but I keep blotting his skin.

Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film. View all posts by poetryfest