Sunday Afternoon

Worn blue jeans slide off 
Daddy’s waist, resting on his hips. 
The back right pocket is molded 
around a wallet. 
The way he moves– 
There’s a stride with the right 
Drag with the left. 
He’s too careless to really give a damn if he limps. 
His clothes are as worn as he: 
The dull fleece jacket 
Lies unzipped on his person, 
Flapping with each broken step. 
A blue-battered t-shirt matches his weary eyes 
And a corduroy cap stiched with “Kubota” 
(his favorite brand of toy). 
He sees me and smiles 
I try to hide but it’s unavoidable. 
He loves me, he knows me– 
And we’re in the mall together 
On his only day off. 
And over his shouder 
There’s a shovel.

This entry was posted on Friday, September 16th, 2005 at 5:00 am and is filed under Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

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