After the Collapse

It was not true that my old man
Was silly and playful as
They used to portray him
In yearbooks of yore.
He never once made a prank call.
Neither did he drive the dog
Up the wall and down near the canal.
That was actually a misalignment
Of old roots in peaty soil.
My old man was completely serious
In matters of gardening and husbandry.
It defies all existing records.
He would sometimes drive for hours
To get his hands on a single fish.
Other days he would wash
The curry tree and eggplants
With his sweat
And refuse to come in until it poured.
Then the backaches, here and there.
He was almost a cardiologist
With the aquarium as his heart.
Accounting for every hatched egg,
Every shimmering little fry lost
Or taken, by some act of God,
By the muddy river before
It ate away its home.
It was not only until years later
That we realised all he wanted
Was to live through the fingers
Of those who gave them to him.