EDITIING (REV)

My father, since he died, feels free
To walk into any of my poems

And look around. He knows that when
My mother comes by, missing him,
He'll turn and smile to see her.
For now, though, he taps three fingers
Against a conceit, listening to hear
If it’s as solid as its maker warranted.
He talks with the punctuation marks
To see if they're content or if some comma,
Doing the work of a semi-colon,
Feels it deserves more pay. Occasionally

He’ll very gently take a word aside
To suggest it might be happier elsewhere.