Father

Father

He was born in a pin striped suit
with hair slicked back like Dracula.
I would tease and he would chuckle.
He was quiet, sincere:
a gentleman’s gentleman.

That was just his nature I suppose.
Not that he spoke a lot in shadowed crowds,
but in sunflower moments,
and crystalline rain clouds, thoughts illuminate,
and he would open like a bright white lily,
and tell of incredible tales: how he dodged
the Korean War, how he reeled in the blue swordfish
now mounted in his conference room at work,
or about his commitment to community,
to service, to a life fulfilled.

For a man who said very little,
it’s beautiful really, and revealing.
That tall man with the deep voice
whose ominous presence challenged you,
how his piercing blue eyes, your eyes,
looked directly into your own
was just a man. Just a man.
Like anyone else I guess, with stories
to be told, sharing his heart, baring all, spinning
tales of fear, honor, and privilege,
how he grew up in a small town,
or how he secured his master’s degree
after attending college on the GI bill,
or how he played the lead role
in “I Never Sang For My Father,”
still hiding behind that suit,
which assumes an assuming man,
but underneath were just cotton pillows,
painted deserts, liquid dreams,
and the plain desire to be human.
Just human.
To find connection.
To be like everyone else.