Sunday, June 19, 2011

a day of fathers

My father has been gone
twelve years plus some days,
but can I hear his voice,
which I described in a poem once
as "smoke ruined."
Those Dutch Master cigars
and ivory bowled pipes
are what killed him.

I hear him teasing me
about my "strange kid,"
whom he loved more than breath,
which is saying a lot
because breath was a high-priced commodity
for him in the end.

I miss him.

His voice is like a tattoo
in my head, permanent,
a little faded now
but still exactly his.

My Girl and I took her daddy out
for gnocchi and wine and dessert
at the local Olive Garden.
I spent too much money
but didn't mind.
Her daddy is a good father
and loves his child more than breath.

My father was a good father, too,
and I listen closely to his tattoo voice,
maybe put my words in his mouth
to convince myself I'm doing the right things
these days
for self and child.

1 comment:

  1. This one, in particular, strikes a chord. It's beautiful.

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