March

25 days from 27
years, with children looking
up to daddy, job, meatloaf tuesdays
playground afterschool hurry home
from work, spring flowers in the air
hugging mommy,
and I'm so... old...so much older than
I should be when fathers will die after me
in the cold empty sad world of early mondays
coffee ford Taurus roaring like kittens
in the window as I leave, placing my foot
firmly between the door creaking shut
and outside--

I can't remember my fathers face when I was young
and he was towering above purple sky,
atheletic, throwing baseball back and forth
with old softball mit legendary,
I'd run my hands through it,
wonder at how it never missed,
he never missed,
holding his hand along mountain roads-

grass brushing cars silently,
I scraped my knee, blood and bruise
so we sat on old forgotten dug out bench,
grass above my waist,
watching the old ball game roll along
where my father was the hero
at 3rd and short,
bugs screeched loudly in the root jungle
cheering, in the hollow pocono heat

we've got miles back to walk
on the oh long ago road of childhood
and fatherhood,
where I forget to grow old
catching pop-ups
dad fires
higher than the sun