I have never known my father to be a man seen in marrow,
to see weakness in arms that once held me high
above his head and upon his shoulders,
pops ain’t what he used to be momma will say,
and i am not the one to hold atlas in my arms
for that has always been his role,
my palms do not have knowledge yet, but i am learning
it is 2:17 a.m and july has held its warm wet heat,
I drove my dad to the hospital this week,
pops ain’t what he used to be,
but he is and always will carry our pride
like wings stretched wide
held high and full of might, eyes of hope and old war
stories which flow from his throat,