Miller moths flit around my father's head:
A new generation hatched
during three weeks
at the medical center: his heart.
He bats at them
with a yellow swatter,
mutters how they laid their eggs
in the oat bran he left
open on the sill.
I want to fume out the moths forever,
find a pretty tin for the oats,
one with a tight lid.
I can see better arrangements for
the mugs, the cereal, but I fear
he will lose his way in my ordered
world, unable to navigate without
the pepper shaker in its usual spot.
Only the moths have a new spot
and the valve in his heart.
I think I hear it flutter
when he lifts his arm.