Could it be, perhaps, to piss you off?
You barely noticed me anyway
My big days, it seems, were not big enough
Carefully, you avoided the foreground
There was no sense of occasion for you
And yet, often, when I am slopping around
With no shame, splattered with paint and glue
I am touched by our strange similarity
Waiting in the wardrobe, you are still here
I can breathe you in, step into your shadows
Your slowness, the language we did not share
Our arguments have faded into history
You would not have noticed the irony
Of my reluctance to wear smart clothes
You only had one suit, dad. So do I.
I can hear your slow, patient voice
And remember what you showed me
When I am touching a piece of wood
Your clothes and books, boxed up for charity
No comments:
Post a Comment