With crepuscule eyes, two globes in the rough.
There was neither wind, nor ocean enough
To weaken the flicker of my navy flame.
I could not believe that once here did resound
The roars of the pride and my friends abound.
I stood long forgotten, like a small child’s game,
Until the moon peeked up, her hollow eyes lit.
Then watched as I spit into a makeshift pit:
A single drop, a combustion, a spark of blood.
The moon dove again, and who else could I blame
But myself, this son—what’s his name.
The flames danced coolly, as I knew they would.
Then through the bitter haze, my Father appeared,
His cigarette casting shade on his spectral beard.
He said not a word, but smelled strongly of the bay.
It drifted beyond Now, into the distant wood—
While my Father, just as Then, left me where I stood.
I had not remembered it was Father’s Day.
In the dance of the blaze I had not glanced
At the stars, no, this son was far too entranced
With the shadows curving on evening’s floor.
I doubt this son would’ve had much to say.
Not without a séance of Hallelujah May.
My Father must have wandered back to the shore,
Having done all he could to let his son
Know that he will never be the only one.
Watching the moon reappear, I can hear the sound
Of a lonely bell collar from the dog next door,
Whose owner died of a heart attack long ago.
No comments:
Post a Comment