sail on

my father, pushing
eighty and beyond, loves
to lie in the sun, lift
weights, dye his full
head of curly hair
blonde and firt with
the bikini girls at
the pool who are sixty
years his junior. but so
what. he's alive with
what's left of the body
he was given.
there's no sense
of regret or guilt, or
of hanging on for dear
life. he quit smoking
at fifty, quit drinking
at sixy and i don't want
to know the rest. there's
not a prayer in him. he's
on cruise control just
as he was at twenty,
making kids, making love,
sailing the high seas
in his navy whites.
his blue eyes shining
across the savage ocean
of time.