My Father’s Son

Patiently hidden in a list –
one of his many sons
like a shiny nickel in a pocketful
of change at the winding down
phase of a rich life, one
I tried to follow.

I talk with my father
regularly and fruitfully.
We have a lot in common –
our wheels are greased.
I sit on his sunny couch
to share family news.

I’m not being ignored –
he knows about some angles
and turns in the strange trip
from his loins to my mountain
of lessons and scribblings.
He can see it from there.

There, in his writhing
kind of Camelot shining
walls of faith and halls
of a science left behind.
There, at his long table,
me at the other end.

I offer a perspective –
he interprets as he chooses.
Maybe it is unavoidable
what he sees is what shows
up in the light of a fire
crackling at his hearth.

I warm my hands at it –
my shadow dancing backwards
on tapetries covering stonework
cut, laid and erected
in a stolid generation
of thankless, doughty masons.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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