To Uncle Mark, Who Sat in His Car, Shut the Garage and Turned on the Ignition

I.

The upholstery—a bed, or so I imagine it became
as you reclined in the driver’s seat of your car,
perhaps laughing,
or tense, focused, waiting for sleep.
How long did it take?

II.

In my parent’s kitchen,
you pretended to make your eyeball disappear
and reappear
out of your mouth, behind your ear, behind mine.
At age ten, I believed you, agog.
I still believe you, reappear.

III.

The program from your memorial concert
is buried under floor clutter;
I find your face occasionally, grinning
sheepishly up from the pale yellow paper,
dog eared and wrinkled
like those eyes of yours, smirking,
worn and loved, oh yes—loved.