Angry fire flashed in his eyes; 
finger pointed accusingly – 
a first between my father and me, 
despite ample opportunities.
No longer the man I knew, 
so much destroyed the moment 
he crashed to the hardwood floor 
after a two-am piss.

Here in his hospital bed, 
he wanted only to take a shit 
on a toilet like a man, 
not in a diaper like a child. 
And I was there, not helping, 
saying, “They’ll be here soon.” 

But language also had been
lost in the fall, 
along with dignity and pride.

Mercifully, nurses rescued me 
from his fury, 
but not from my shame 
at having borne witness to this, 
his one descent into indignation 
in a lifetime of generous kindness, 
moral strength, humility
and paternal pride.
Nor could they prevent this moment 
from becoming part of how 
I remember him, and 
part of how 
I judge myself.