The Son

I should be glad of another death.

Come away. Forgive my father. His mind.
I used to think we’d learn from him, but look:
he broods; relives those half remembered, half dreamed
journeys through Rome’s aging empire.

A fine sight
they must have made those three — bowing
before peasants. He believes in myths
that come from bending over books too long
and gazing at fires while his own embers grow cold.
Now he looks for meaning from that other’s life
crossed with his.

I often find him silent,
under stars or nodding before closed books,
tamed by too much peace. His time has gone.

Let him shiver — seek out death in this cold
and wait, the way others wait for the returning sun.

Originally published in Ball State University Forum, Autumn 1988 (1989)
© copyright 2004, 2008 the Grandpa at The Word Mechanic Blog
All rights reserved