Written very much on the spot . . . I dislike Father's Day. =/
Father, Father, tell me why
You’d rather sleep inside the sky
Than by the woman that you left behind,
Or by the daughter you put out of mind.
If it were my matter to decide,
Father would stay by my side.
Instead I wonder what could have been;
The writer and the musician.
I see Father in my mind’s eye
With orbs of blue and a messy tie.
Hair tussled, blond, and curly,
Gentle chin and face shaved early.
My dimples line his smile,
Each tooth a glistening tile.
An easy, happy, calming grin;
A rare radiance among men.
But who is this man upon the couch?
The one with the scowl and slouch.
His hair is scarce and red,
Scattered about his freckled head.
His smile is crooked and misplaced
As he leans his lips against Mother’s face.
His voice chills my bones,
His laugh so out of tone.
Father’s voice would be smooth as silk,
Underlined with thick strings of a quilt.
Where is the depth in this man’s visage?
Make short work, God, of this mirage.
The flowers Mother bought for a monster
Are better suited for a man six feet under.
If only I could place them upon his grave;
The Father I long to have saved.
