-
-
The Past is a prayer
for this future,
his flannel cuffs
rolled up to the elbows
where tattooed forearms
descend
and veined wrists
rise up like a sunrise,
his knuckles chapped
rocky hills
with outcropping
thumbs hooked in belt loops
on a pair of corduroy trousers,
their velvet
time-scraped
at the knees.
He shifts his big-boot feet
and finally raises his eyes,
staring straight from under
hooded brows
at me
his reckless daughter,
removing his belt,
I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this . . .
Listen to a podcast of this poem here.
-
-
Post a Comment