Easter Brunch

 

They could have asked him not to come/ Or hidden the date / Or pretended to cancel.

They could have moved the place and let him wander around town

until he found a bar or a chum or an unlocked door -

But here he is, redfacedRoger with the watery eyes reaching out

to hold the baby as if he had a right, as if he was part of the family

rather than an accidental gene donor.

He goes by Clyde now, anyway. Named himself after the baby but did it wrong.

Maybe to give himself one less thing to forget.

“This is my grandson,” he said to the maître d’ - “Clyde.”

“Calvin” his daughter said. “His name is Calvin, Daddy."

And his name is Roger, not Clyde.

And he is Hobbes now, anyway, visible only to the boy,

who reaches his arms out and says, “ball?”

And he is there again, among them, long enough for someone

to say they saw him at brunch. That he seemed fine.

That they were all together.

He was there.

They saw him.