Wednesday, March 31, 2010


My Father.
An hour out of my work day.
Every Tuesday, every noontime.
He, the master carpenter.
He, the drummer.
Me, the wide eyed boy again.
In awe of all the demons
he has battled and defeated.
A warrior in the fight for his life.
Our old kitchen; my old man.
“How you doing, Pops?”
“Sonny, I’m dying.”
With three words
I died a bit myself.
Just lunch. Much to digest.

1 comment:

  1. The understatement at the end works for me. It fascinates me to get a glimpse, even a blur, from the head of a boy, a son, a brother, a father, a man. (I'm on the other side of the fence, the nosy-neighbor-poetry-lover. Hah.)