The man who fathered me
often lacked diplomacy
and seldom showed he cared.
He worked long hours, not skipping a beat
but at day’s end would make his retreat
to a dimly lit bar, to imbibe and to share.
With his friends he’d cavort
but they weren’t the sort
he’d pal around with at any other time.
He’d head home when he was done.
Deal with a wife who felt shunned,
then would pass out in his chair before nine.
He wasn’t permissive, abusive or absent
and there were good times and special events,
like vacations and Christmas Day.
But though in body he’d be there,
his thoughts were often elsewhere
and though amongst us, he’d seem far away.
He and Mom split after I left home
finally having that life alone
that he seemed often to reflect upon
And yet when he died years later
I recall how I didn’t feel bitter.
‘Cause I am after all his Son