To my father

I watch men I do not know.
How they smile,
twitch,
scratch-
how the dirty steel bristles
cut through their cheeks and chins;
their tatoos
dull blue and grey
on sweat washed arms.
How they rub their hands,
push back their hair,
adjust their collars,
breath,
laugh,
belch.
I am looking for someone
I never knew.
I am looking for my father.
If he were near, I could not
let him pass by unseen, unfelt.

Meeting him,
I do not know what I would say.
hello
or
do you know me?
Maybe I would say nothing.
Maybe I would just sit and stare,
like a soldier,
seeing his own arm
bloody and torn in the road,
wondering why the fingers don't move
when he tries to make a fist.

© Joe Thompson · www.imaginesongs.com

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