My Father
The first of nine children
He was a head above the rest.
Rugged and strong, he was true to his own.
While the eight went to school,
He had to stay.
Dawn till dusk,
His endless work remained.
At sunup, he had to open shop.
He worked with dirty hands
Stirring paints, thinners, and cement.
The smell of chemicals and rust
Filled that dusty old hardware stop.
Despite his sacrifice, his parents went
To pay tribute to siblings they favored best.
Cradling betrayal’s knife in his chest,
He never spoke to them again.
Then one day, they came
Old and sadly forsaken.
He cradled them in their feebleness
And smoothed the ravages of their sickness.
Till finally they breathed their last,
He drank the bitterness from life’s broken glass
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