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"It's funny" my dad says
with a drawn face that doesn't
make me want to laugh
one bit,
"He had that preacher look.
Whatever that is, he had it."

He wasn't wrong.
The man in the sliver casket
looked different now
but a week ago, a month, a year
he could have been a
fixture in anyone's home.
Gaze sharp and belly full he was
a man who looked like love
and spoke like kindness and
held on tight like honesty.
He was the uncle dozing in the living room
after Sunday supper, the father
who harbors patience for every small
and excitable thing.

Something in that gentle smile as he
pat you on the head at the end of the day,
saying it was one well spent,
felt like coming home.
He had that preacher look.