the godfather is gone

grey. though he is still

the godfather, you may

not recognize him 

next time we meet. 

staved it off a long time: 

excellent genes

and a life of ladies,

music and music and beer.

but the time has come, and

the time has come to learn new tricks.

a pistol-spin around the index finger, pull

a rabid monkey out of the hat,

oracular fireplace, 

a special tea, cash,

a new chord.

he has loved you,

loves you still.

but he is no longer the fastest, and so

he steps down to cheer you on from the sidelines.

this may sound maudlin:

it is not.

other than premature exit,

there is no escape

from the wrinkled sack and shroud, 

life in the entropic. 

the godfather still catches flies on the wing,

and he will continue to sit

with notebook and smoking pen,

back to the wall, eyes on the ingress,

considering substance beneath the surface.

but he is gone grey,

the painting fades, and becomes somehow

more the purity of quartz than part of

the animal or vegetable realm.

the godfather, childless godfather 

loves you, all three of you, for being his children.

in some cases discipline was

withheld, in others, praise was effusive.

always there was love. your godfather 

goes, gratefully, to colour

of cloud.

for each cloud, for all we know, 

is a living entity, living

vapour that can

block the sun, 

reveal it,

saturate the earth with life,

and take on any shape

the child's eye finds

in this expressive and mercurial dance.

                                                  for JT, RD, & CL