My father prowled
the plains of the Serengeti,
crept stealthily among the vines
of the Borneo jungle.
In those long blacked-out
grand mal moments,
as he lay broken
at the foot of the stairs,
I imagine him striding
proudly over the land,
flinging himself effortlessly
upon the face of Everest.
His life, his legacy
is now how I choose
to remember it.
Whether real or imagined,
I can make of him
what he could not.
And I see his weathered face
gazing up defiantly
at a god who gave him
nothing but pain,
I watch as he smiles
and says out loud,
Is that all you got?