Our Father

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His last years, when I'd visit him,
he'd pull my handshake into a hug

tight against that sagging body,
once a boxer's, that we children

used to climb and ride like a horse,
that shaded me shepherding bugs in the garden

while, his tee shirt soaked with sweat,
its hands gripped a shovel to turn the earth.

Those hands raised me to his office window
to see downtown and a world beyond.

Bed time, I winced at the scratch of those whiskers,
the air of tobacco and gin with his kiss.

Why should we call by the name of that body
the Soul that set galaxies spinning like pinwheels?

My sense I must've disappointed
put between us a tense distance,

that, in his last years, when I'd visit,
his arms would squeeze out of existence.

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It's been months since I posted a poem here. A part-time office job at the church has interrupted my routine. It's not just a matter of time; before work, my mind is occupied with the challenge ahead; after work, my eyes and back reject any additional desktime. - WSS