I try not to imagine you
leaning on the Formica counter hunched in pain
face furrowed as you peel carrots, onions beets
before turning to grace me in your arms.

I worry that those pills
could send you climbing a ladder
which collapses and hurls you down.

Best to recall the photo on your dresser, you strong
in middle age smiling at your handsome son
among lathes and drills.

Better to picture Your parents fresh to this country,
their story of how you, their hero
bore a refrigerator on your back,
to their 5th floor tenement.

When away from you I conjure your ex-wife
daughter and son picnicking by the river
while you speed off in a motorboat.
That vision racks me, but offers escape from
my inability to heal you.