Father, it's been quite a while.
I can see the long hand of the clock
stroke your face,
and although there are no
numerals, the monotonous
tick of the second hand beats against your brow.
Father, you are nothing but an exoskeleton
of your former self.
The soul trapped between your
crisscrossed face lines
is not your soul.
The hands that wrinkle
like underwater mountain ranges
are not your hands.
I don't believe it's you, father.
You were once a great rumbling earthquake
with enough force to shake
laughter and happiness into the concrete
bones of whomever.
That was then and here you are now-
a quiver, a ripple,
nothing but a humming aftershock.