My mother went for calisthenics on Tuesday nights. 
My father cooked for me, usually hot dogs, 
which he did quite well.
I complimented him on his cooking, 
and I thought he beamed at me with great pride. 
Later he told the story at a gathering of friends, 
and they laughed like it was the funniest thing
anyone had ever heard. 
He boiled the water just so, laid each hot dog 
carefully in a pre-sliced bun. 
We’d have potato chips, pickles, sauerkraut,
mustard, ketchup, horseradish sauce. 
The man was a genius with fork and a couple of jars.
After a while he’d offer me his stein and a sip 
of beer, which always tasted ice cold and bitter as hell.
                        

The sky hangs thin and wet on its clothesline.
	Ted Kooser

My parents walk slowly 
from the mist. 
I can’t say they are strolling 
as that implies leisure 
and pleasure, 
but their steps are firm, 
unhurried, 
and as near as I can tell, 
free from pain. 
Not slow motion 
exactly and not the kind 
of gliding 
you might expect from ghosts. 

In their faces 
I see unaccustomed calm, 
as though they had finished 
a good meal, 
cleaned the kitchen, 
and now are off to bed. 
Our eyes meet, 
but they say nothing, 
not tonight, 
as if there would always 
be time for whatever 
words we might need, 
as if the sky 
had not already disappeared, 
along with the trees and the silent road.