The complete poemsearlier and revised versions, in full
“Copacetic”
The word of the day is copacetic.
I see my brother and me packing suitcases for our trip.
In the frame of the doorway my father stands.
“Everything copacetic?” he says.
One time I asked him where he learned that word.
“As a Marine,” and he told me about his service in the Korean War.
“It was tough,” he said.
In the end, I visited him at the hospital.
“Have some jello.” I held a spoon with a wobble of red before his face.
“Don’t want it.”
“You’ve got to eat, Dad.”
“I’m not hungry.” He pushed it away.
I sat by him from morning until shadows crossed his face.
Mostly he slept. Sometimes he asked what time it was.
I left at nine. The nurse called.
“Your father’s agitated. He wants to leave. Talking about a trip.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
I stand in the doorway of his hospital room. He’s at the window,
wearing the blue bathrobe my sister gave him.
“It brings out your eyes,” she told him.
“Everything copacetic?” I say.
He turns and looks.
“It was tough,” he says.
I guide him to the bed and sleep in the chair beside him.
When I wake, I find that he has gone.
My brother and I are packing for a trip.
My father stands in the doorway.
“Everything copacetic?” he says.
Once, I asked him where he learned that word.
“Korea,” he said, “a Marine word.”
Years later, in the hospital,
the Jell-O quivered on the spoon.
“Don’t want it.”
“You’ve got to eat, Dad.”
“I’m not hungry.” He pushed it away.
I sat by him until shadows
crossed his face. Mostly, he slept.
Sometimes he asked the time.
I left at nine. Soon, the nurse called.
“Your father’s agitated. He wants to leave—
something about a trip.”
When I returned, he stood at the window,
wearing the robe my sister said
brought out the blue in his eyes.
“Everything copacetic?” I asked.
He turned. Looked at me. “It was tough,” he said.
I guided him to the bed and slept in the chair beside him.
By dawn, he’d gone.
His robe, folded,
on the table by the door.
Earlier text as printed in Academy of the Heart and Mind (February 2020). Revised text from Crossings.
“The Crosswalk”
Today I saw a father and son
stepping onto the crosswalk.
I braked and watched them pass.
Son on father’s shoulders,
headed to the park with swings.
I drove on, thinking of you
and wondered why you
never lifted me and held my legs
or brought me to the swings.
But you were not that type of father.
Once, we built a shed together.
I heard you say at a family party years later,
“Remember when Danny and I built the shed.”
But it wasn’t my brother
who cut wood and hammered nails with you.
I was bothered just a bit.
I had other memories,
like when you held my hands as we knotted my tie,
how we both looked in the mirror,
and I saw myself in your face.
You patted my shoulders.
Someone crossed the room and paused to take a picture.
It was on the table by your coffin. Your hands on mine.
Proof that we had closeness for a moment,
and that is enough.
Why never the swings?
Today, I saw a father and son
step onto the crosswalk.
I braked and watched them pass—
the boy on his father’s shoulders,
headed to the park.
Once, we built a shed together.
Years later, at a family party,
I heard you say,
“Remember when Danny and I built the shed?”
But it wasn’t my brother who cut wood
and hammered nails with you.
I was bothered just a bit.
I had other memories—
your help knotting my tie.
We looked in the mirror.
My face reflected in yours.
You patted my shoulders.
Someone crossed the room
and took a picture.
It was on the table by your casket.
Your hands on my shoulders.
One moment, framed.
Earlier text as printed in Academy of the Heart and Mind (February 2020). Revised text from Crossings.
When I wake, I find that he has gone.
By dawn, he’d gone.
His robe, folded,
on the table by the door.
Between these two texts sat a 2025 manuscript reading, “At dawn, he was gone.”
Proof that we had closeness for a moment,
and that is enough.
Your hands on my shoulders.
One moment, framed.
Both poems once closed on the speaker’s own conclusion. The early “Copacetic” ends inside the survivor’s waking mind; the early “Crosswalk” tells the reader what the photograph proves and that it is enough. Each revision removes the sentence that names the feeling and leaves an object in its place: a folded robe on a table, a photograph by a casket.
The change may leave more to the reader. A conclusion can only be agreed with; a folded robe has to be looked at, and the absence is left for the reader to notice. “Copacetic” also moves by stages. “When I wake” becomes “At dawn, he was gone” in a 2025 manuscript, then “By dawn, he’d gone,” with the robe set on the table.
A suggestion. If a draft ends by explaining itself, you might cover that last sentence and see whether an object in the lines just above could close the piece instead.