I sail over the causeway
flying across water and time
through the scent of salt sea air
past sand dunes and sea oats
to the bright white driveway
of my father’s last house.
Inside is a Formica table,
an old oak chair.
Across its solid bent back
hangs a faded work shirt,
red and black plaid,
the shirt he wore in the garden
of string beans, okra and elephant ears.
In time, when I try it on
the shirt comes apart in tatters.
I will bury it under the pine duff
next to my azaleas.