Dads
I talked to an old friend last night;
(Webster) Web .
Old Baseball players hug.
Its the leather in your jaw.
The dirt still under both of your nails;
An insignia of what we called
Character building pride.
Didn't recognize him in the basement bar;
No light down there.
His black face looked semi-menacing.
Then I heard my name.
(Webstah with the sweat ball pitch.)
The laugh at the corner of the eyes
is what makes you remember a name for a face.
The catch up begins.
A sucking sound came from inside my chest.
(Father's explained fathers and sons)
We talked about our fathers.
His dad had the camera of light.
My father had left.
This sound was
Air out of a plane window at 30k feet;
Air out of my shoes knocking me on the floor
Web sort of knew;
"Crazy he was" he said he thought he knew.
"Crazy he was" I said I knew I thought.
A sigh for measure.
He photographs like dad
(that (spitballer))
Talented probably
A good man his dad was and
How he used to always photograph us running
In the dirt.
His laughs and cheers behind the camera
Made him like chewy cool parfait.
He used to remind me of living jazz.
His son carried his tune the same.
With respect there was a name.
The blur from a corner of the crest is slept under did I.
The alone,
Abandonment,
Guilt,
Fear,
Blank memories,
Plaid lines of confusion,
and Pain
Make fathers in the knew, thought, heard era.
"A toast";
I said
"To our Dad's"
A walk home
A tired heart rests
