Father, you were the most high 
magistrate of superstition, dying
intestate because you feared 
making a will would hasten the end.  

Before the end, your palms came 
together every morning; your mouth 
tumbled each round bead of prayer
until they lay smooth in a heap again.

My hand hovers, uncertain, above  
the key to complete any transaction. 
It's you I miss, not what wasn't there; 
not the wealth you wanted to bequeath.

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