Knowing my father’s soon to die, I
dreamt of Heaven, a wide deck
suspended over a highway. I was
checking it out as a care facility—
the chairs and chaise lounges rickety
things, woven plastic straps
lashed to aluminum tubing.
There were areas out of the glare,
under corrugated green fiberglass
awnings up on wrought-iron struts.
And the dead all about were milling
in variable states of haze,
in tennis outfits, bathing suits.
Where were the courts, the pools?
No conversation—only the drone
of the road below. Nothing new
to learn from that real-world song. I left
for the parking garage. Could I tell
my father about this place? Would I
want him to know, or just let him
see for himself when it’s time?