An Ordinary Man
Every Day,
My Father got up early
And sat there, in the dark, like a mushroom,
And thought, and thought, and thought…
And... grieved...
He would not be the hero that he'd hoped,
An ordinary fellow with flat feet...
What DID he think? enveloped in the pre-dawn hush?
Perhaps he thought up all the ways that he would live the day,
And do some thing for everybody else... why? Just to pay
The
Deal He Bought.
To do something he hated, to provide…
To do something he loved, just to provide…
Perhaps he grieved for sons
He feared would fail him,
Or grieved for lonely life lived long in misery,
Or grieved for death's shadow… long, and inching closer
But, No.
I think that was his Pure time,
When stars were still alive, and shed a light
That could not yet be lost in day's grand smear of Sun,
When the silent house made the homely sounds
That only he, at that hour, heard
When the dark enfolded him, and was his blanket,
Reassuring him, that he would have the strength to face
Another day, another week, another year,
Like every Ordinary Man Does,
With slow faith,
And quick fears.
Copyright © Andrew Fairchild | Year Posted 2018
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