He Was Tapping His Foot

He was tapping
his foot,
under that white knit blanket in that
dying bed in the
nursing home.

Hot white August
afternoon, Round Rock, Texas.
My sister, our cousin and I somehow piled
up on that slim bed with my dad, still
tall, still
handsome, still
quiet,

laughing and
talking as
the three of us
would do.

My dad, tired tumored
mind working on
breathing again.

One of us noticed it,
and pointed,
saying

Look.

And there it was.  How he had tapped
his foot
a thousand times before
to someone like

Neil Diamond,
Marty Robins,
even
Abba.

I want to say
it was Johnny Cash singing
Sunday Morning Coming Down,
one of Harold’s all time favorites.

It could have
just as well
been Willie Nelson’s
City of New Orleans.

Dad “couldn’t stand” Willie’s voice
​unless
he was singing
that one.

My dad’s
foot
couldn’t help it,
every time.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap

That was the last time.