I was standing at the corner
Of Yonge and Bedlam Ave.,
When I spied a chap across the way,
The image of my Dad.
He had one thumb in his pocket,
The fingers hung outside.
His other arm craddled a book,
As often in his life.
His weight was shifted to the right,
With head cocked to the side;
He wore his cap over one eye,
Tweed jacket open wide.
He raised his head,
As I did mine,
Looked to me and nodded;
He smiled and touched
The edge of his brim,
I did the same as him.
We crossed with the light.
He passed
And went
Where he belongs;
Me, to the library,
My book was overdue.
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 2:38 PM UTC
I was standing at the corner
Of Yonge and Bedlam Ave.,
When I spied a chap across the way,
The image of my Dad.
He had one thumb in his pocket,
The fingers hung outside.
His other arm craddled a book,
As often in his life.
His weight was shifted to the right,
With head cocked to the side;
He wore his cap over one eye,
Tweed jacket open wide.
He raised his head,
As I did mine,
Looked to me and nodded;
He smiled and touched
The edge of his brim,
I did the same as him.
We crossed with the light.
He passed
And went
Where he belongs;
Me, to the library,
My book was overdue.
