My father’s dreams grow
tired of waiting for him
They sit,
complaining, over endless cups of tea
“Three years dead
now, and another three months almost;
What ails the man?
Does he mean to stay dead?”
I knew most of them
when they were younger, milder .
They waited on him
patiently. He’d a day job then
And a night job.
And, of course, a weekend job.
If he hadn’t sneaked
extra hours into the day
He’d have had no time
for his children;
He always had time
for them. “Don’t get sentimental!”
Warn his dreams. “Our
frail brothers went with him
But we remain. Find
work for us! Or make more tea.”
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