.
Walking up the dirt road from home
Joe saw a man in shirt sleeves
wearing a brown, felt fedora
cocked at a rakish angle.
Neither spoke. Joe knew
of the stranger, knew the man
and his family rented the house
at the mile corner.
Joe kept his eye on the man,
tall, slim, blue-eyed like him,
like the man he would become,
until they passed,
then stared ahead.
The first time,
the last time
he saw his father.
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My father, my father
I am from your loins
But you have not borne me
This journey is incomplete
And I hunger so
Though I may seem intact
The cheese of my soul
Is holy riddled
With the moonlight
Of faded memory
wonderfully poetic reply