The skin of my father is like a crumpled newspaper.
I told him today that I loved him,
that I was sorry if I ever made him feel
unloved.
Such things you might say to a ninety-four-year-old man,
especially if you have never said them before.
This, which he has never said to me,
This is assumed, he said.
This is assumed.
My brother, the doctor, says the old man suffers
from tactopenia, which can happen
when you are untouched.
Or untouchable.
I know how that feels. It feels
like the skin of my father.
Like a crumpled newspaper.

I gave my dog a deep massage today.
They say it’s good for the dog, good for the owner.
I probed the depth of his muscles and sinews,
and his eyes probed mine, finding himself in my attention.
He assumed, as he rolled onto his back,
exposed,
he assumed I would not tear out his entrails with my teeth.
In the offering of his throat and belly,
he seemed to ask if he could be a person like me.
Sure you can, I said,
with the laying on of hands,
which caused him to wag his tail.
But I didn’t tell him it would come with a down side.
He’ll find that out soon enough on his own.
For today it’s enough that I gave
my dog a deep massage.