Tuesday, July 1, 2014


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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