for Joe M. (1926-2003)

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,
until they passed,
then stared ahead.

The first time,
the last time
he saw his father.


2 thoughts on “1936

  1. 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

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