Dad Late in Both Our Lives

Born where water is low
collected in ditches spanning
the social order of the valley
an acre at a time old men
pick produce and get older.

Damned by curiosity
children baseborn and never
creamed with a silver spoon
went to war to get out
and most would not return.

The parallax of anxiety
between fathers and sons
prevents any bidirectional
cognitive accomodation
I am still waiting

for a word for a nod
for a trading of praise
not to be applauded but
for a passing down of some
ring if not a crown.

Every sprig said or written
is ambiguous and to get it
fanned out takes hitting it
with big sticks and tickling
joints with sprays of leaves.

Where is your subtlety and wit
it used to shine and I miss it
judgments instant as packaged
entrees and frozen desserts
see the parts not the patterns.

Late in both our lives
Dad will you ever hesitate
to wonder or to ponder
how and why I said what I said
before you say what a Dad says?

Do I have to list or catalog
what I have done or learned
as a way of asking for you
to step out of that stern
downlooking look?

As it was a hundred years ago
with fathers called to go settle
barren places with infertile
soil an no reward for work
we won’t talk about it.

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
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