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Poem

A father sits. 
Wrench in hand;
To fasten a wheel. 
The wagon now shiny red. 
A gift for her. 
To tote a doll promised to share. 
Sisters always fought. 
He never found the words, 
To appease their struggle. 
A blue can lubricated the
Squeaks of age. 
He stood,  the crook of his thumb
Hitched to a belt loop. 
Oh,  she will like this. 
Will she jostle her toys;
In a bumpy field? 
Will her little sister chase
Her about? 
Demanding a turn! 

He stood.  A tall and sturdy man. 
Fortune never found him
Just hard labor. 
There had not been enough
Time.  They are growing so fast! 
They had so many questions. 
Why?  why?  why? 
He rarely answered to satisfaction. 
The oldest.  Stubborn like a mule. 
The youngest.  Touching everything! 
He didn't Dare leave anything within reach. 

Now he rest; thinking of the wagon. 
Thinking of fishing trips. 
Camping trip disasters. 
Thinking of words never spoken. 
They are older now. 
The why,  was in their stares. 
Not their words. 
His heart was clumsy. 
Couldn't they see that? 
He will visit them with his spirit. 
His vision sees what he could not
In youth.  
He will give them words 
Through the mouths of strangers. 

He still remembers the wagon. 
There are no broken pieces in his rest. 
He still remembers the first catch. 
Memories are his essence; His heaven. 
Fight no more dear ones!  
Remember that last hug. 
Wipe away that last tear!  
For I am here and there. 

KKenneth Kerry

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