Sitting Outside

　　by W. D. Snodgrass

　　 These lawn chairs and the chaise lounge

　　 of bulky redwood were purchased for my father

　　 twenty years ago， then plumped down in the yard

　　 where he seldom went when he could still work

　　 and never had stayed long. His left arm

　　 in a sling， then lopped off， he smoked there or slept

　　 while the weather lasted， watched what cars passed，

　　 read stock reports， counted pills，

　　 then dozed again. I didn't go there

　　 in those last weeks， sick of the delusions

　　 they still maintained， their talk of plans

　　 for some boat tour or a trip to the Bahamas

　　 once he'd recovered. Under our willows，

　　 this old set's done well： we've sat with company，

　　 read or taken notes-although the arm rests

　　 get dry and splintery or wheels drop off

　　 so the whole frame's weakened if it's hauled

　　 across rough ground. Of course the trees，

　　 too， may not last： leaves storm down，

　　 branches crack off， the riddled bark

　　 separates， then gets shed. I have a son， myself，

　　 with things to be looked after. I sometimes think

　　 since I've retired， sitting in the shade here

　　 and feeling the winds shift， I must have been filled

　　 with a child dread you could catch somebody's dying

　　 if you got too close. And you can't be too sure.