Singing Photograph

Mouth wide pint of porter in hand his photograph sits faded so Singing singing oh rare singing “Please release me,” he said, “let me go” Hair oiled on a cold hair spray night Words did flow like velvet ribbons Christmas tree under tissue paper snakes precariously waving on some precarious mission It now sits on the polished press where slightest breath knocks it down New once, seen, admired every day my fathers image stands, it's not alone Now joined by the faces of children ones that didn't exist back when Never heard his song or swayed with pride or care that he sang to me when I was ten