Sitting with my father i see my face rendered in masculine (not bad) but more, i see my own gestures, my way off shrugging off other people's opinions, my need for attention and also that terrible vulnerability on the surface yet just out of sight.
my similarity to my mother are borne of familiarity, those of my dad must just be blood.
as we sat outside Derby station the Backstreet Boys blasting in one ear we chatted about things, and suddenly i felt a connection to him that i hadn't before. the knowledge that one day he'd be gone washed over me. can you mourn something before it leaves?
Around his weary body
he gathers the remains of
another life.
under skin that skin that glows
with half remembered vitality
there are clues that he is
tired, about the eyes
and when he dozes
he is quite chop fallen
a high brow sinking.
and a beard that creates the illusion of a jaw
he gathers the remains of another life
the one he doesn't live anymore.
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