He was a simple man With sweet-simple tastes: Frosted Flakes for breakfast Southern Comfort when it got late. For a couple of weeks, it was just we two With this houseful of detritus to rummage through. He balked at forsaking his brown wooden house On a wide macadam street with a lonely maple out front. "Do I have to leave?" more than one time he sighed, Then gracefully surrendered to forgetfulness – and time. These were good-busy days, on deadline, but timeless. We sorted, and sifted, and put sore points behind us. "When I abandoned your dream, were you sad?  Or not?" He smiled, shook his head, and poured one more shot. A half century of memories, leisurely conversation, Bookended by flakes of gold and an amber libation. We walked familiar streets, and down by the river. Gazed at crinkling faded photos by a cozy-crackling fire. He retold the old stories and recalled new ones, too Like getting drunk on Southern Comfort at the end of World War Two.  He saw some old friends, there are now but a few. When one tried to hug him, he awkwardly withdrew. But later, he wept, he was given no choice When he heard a recording of my mother's sweet voice. It was dark and cold, car packed, ropes taut. In the foyer, we lingered, gathering our thoughts. We offered a brief prayer of thanks and regret And one for the new owners unknown to us yet. Time to leave. Was he sad? His answer, a sigh. I drove down the street, and came back around, Then inched past our house as he breathed a silent goodbye.   He now is gone, but the memories aren’t dim.   Of my dad and the home that was precious to him.   It's been years since that dusk when we drove out of sight,   Past two amber porch lights glowing in the night.