My Father Sylvester Ekwobi

A story about my Sylvester, Should yield a booster, Every honest sentence defying a duster His preferred designation, “A father” not Master. Thirty-five years in an office That smelt of telephone and letter But he wouldn’t telephone the police, Relationships patching up for better My own Sylvester Never bowed to any harvester, Himself, a green finger, Whose farm jobs didn’t linger. My own Sylvester Would rather he chose polyester In lieu of Esther Or Augusta, The unlikeliest womanizer And as unlikelier rabble rouser. My own Sylvester Would’ve accepted a multitude’s lord And just ended up a landlord, Which little dropped him he might hoard For infrequently paid rent By tenants, on money matters, no Gent. My own Sylvester Had sought to be a star But rather won its scar, Which one could still celebrate in a bar Over his uncertainty I pine On his being nearly Eighty Nine. Sorry for losing your wife twenty four years ago On 19th Nov. 1997, letting go.