Saturday, February 27, 2010

Papa

A little grimace
then a larger one.
Hard hands doing soft work

No punch clock,
no production line,
not the same kind of pain.

Love spreading frail roots
in the midst of a cratered countryside
the soil, like mist;
floating in front of the midday sun
and men, sweaty and tired,
fall to the ground unaware of the beauty-
save one.

A large groan,
a tug from a cold glass
and a clearing of the throat.

So much gore-
zeal for country followed by swift sentences-
an eye for an eye and all that;
but there was something beneath it all,
something overlooked,
sitting in the muddy trench
covered with the same dirt, sweat
and blood.

They were all moving forward
but there he was, unsure of his path-
his eyes open.

He sees the chaos,
the inches gained
and the flesh piling up on butcher's bill;
but through the fog
there is a figure-
his reason, duty be damned;
there was his peace.

The hard hands pause
knuckles crack, and wild eyes
stare out the window.
They see the sun,
they see the sky and clouds;
and when the weathered hands begin again
recounting the sunset with simple words on toothy paper
they write with love;
and we feel it.

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