I caught an echo of my father
in the way you wear your coat
In the way you're not entirely there
but linger on like smoke
I was looking for a thing that's gone
like those pens with tubes of ink
like mucilage or gum erasers
or feeling loved, I think
Now I've freighted you and burdened you
and slowed you from yourself
with drapery of memory
I should hook and part myself
But all it was, was honor, sir
all it was was need
to make of you a palimpsest
that I could sigh and read.