FATHER’S DAY

 

Twenty-five years of city traffic
have passed this bus stop since
and yet there you are – impossibly so –
your familiar hair and heavy
framed spectacles, chubby stance
that increasingly I approximate,
chatting as was your habit to a group
of three in tutorial diminished thirds
and easy vocabulary.

 

Logic says you've gone
so if it’s you
then logic’s at wit’s end.
If it's you what was our mourning for,
our ritual farewells,
contested will and testament,
the packing and pitching, the selling
the thanking, the struggle to set course
by an orphan’s compass?

What have you been doing?