Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
The phone rang after 2: 00 am. Taking the steps in pairs my legs faltered at his door - paralyzed by denial. Forcing myself inside, I saw father's lifeless frame, wired to synthetic everything - a cold white line still against the black. My grief-racked soul railed at that liar screen, knowing his true lifeline danced with passion  - precision cutting with his lathe, strumming passing chords on his Gibson Les Paul. That morning I knocked a ball through a neighbor’s glass I learned what honor meant. With dad's steady hand on my  shoulder, I stammered  apologies and learned to glaze a window.   We'd play catch after supper. or down franks and pop at Briggs where the Tigers played. Detroit is flying high this year: God, how I wish I could give the old man a call. September,  2006
0
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
My Father's Dance
The phone rang after 2: 00 am. Taking the steps in pairs my legs faltered at his door - paralyzed by denial. Forcing myself inside, I saw father's lifeless frame, wired to synthetic everything - a cold white line still against the black. My grief-racked soul railed at that liar screen, knowing his true lifeline danced with passion  - precision cutting with his lathe, strumming passing chords on his Gibson Les Paul. That morning I knocked a ball through a neighbor’s glass I learned what honor meant. With dad's steady hand on my  shoulder, I stammered  apologies and learned to glaze a window.   We'd play catch after supper. or down franks and pop at Briggs where the Tigers played. Detroit is flying high this year: God, how I wish I could give the old man a call. September,  2006
robert-c-howard
Written by
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem