My Father

There are moments captured about the mantel;

a man thin with laughter, an imp sprouting curls,

who ricocheted from land to lake,

province by province...

Now he's a rounding mound, grey curls fall away in patches.

He's parked

remote in hand, a drone of sports net, tepid low-fat beer,

the whine of static saturates the air,

as I watch his empty stare.

Often I find molding canvases and dusty guitars,

endless scribbles on parchment tucked away beneath the communal staircase,

a garage filled with brittle Da Vinci lecture books and weights still shrink wrapped.

Evidence of some long forgotten identity, of a man...

thin with laughter, an imp sprouting curls,

who ricocheted from land to lake,

province by province ...

The End

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