Tom Nesbit
Father
Father was inclined to be obtrusive,
yet I remember Mother, in confidence
avowing, he could be so persuasive.
This tendency he had for interference
over things that gave little reason for concern
was the life-blood of his existence.
Hair snowed by time, he learned to discern
that obtrusive could easily translate to obtuse.
All this and more I’ve lived to mourn.
Silence became a virtue which he would use
as a gauge against a current conversation.
Nowadays this silence thunders through the house.
Days fly with barely hint or recollection
and ah, the years, like Eliot’s women, come and go.
Mother and Father smile through sepia’s imperfection.
Mother stands close, I lie on your knee, seventy years ago.
Page(s) 33
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