A father’s blotchy green pen
scribbles ‘neverness’ over cheap pages
an empty bottle
warms an emptier soul
a cold hush marks the wind
that screams both comfort
and alarm
‘Let your pocket be a place
for his picture’
say the scribbles
‘so that sometimes
when you reach for change
it falls out
and you’ll tell someone his story’
His head bursts with autumn-
the promise of
change
the despondence of
forever
‘seasons turn over’
he whispers
as he rests his eyes
‘dead sons
never do’
Time will move differently now.
