Bradford Dillman in the Basement
When I was a kid, I watched
Bradford Dillman as St. Francis
on the television. Dad was
refinishing the basement
while I sat on the floor touched
in sawdust by the old
black and white. I cried
in the newness, spreading
my arms on the bathroom tile
between the sink and the bi-fold doors.
I used Dillman’s lines
and prayed for the Hollywood blood.
Years later, I visited Assisi
to say a rosary for my father
who had grown old with his basement
and who was now ─ new to death.
Sequestered in a back pew,
I hid my tears from the other tourists,
beads clacking, nothing black,
nothing white.
Few knew my father as a bird watcher,
his chair by the back porch
positioned so he could keep his eyes
on the feeders and the martin house.
In summer sparrows slipped
through the open doors of the Basilica.
They hurried below the great dome ─
the drumming of their wings
like voices removed.