The Asthmatic
THE ASTHMATIC
He was 53 when I was born,
A victim by depression shorn,
Never to know much of his own,
Enjoying neither car nor home.
Yet my father never gave in,
Struggled for breath through thick and thin.
And though nature’s victim, he thrived,
Knew well each tree and vine alive,
A regular fine sniffing hound,
Sampling from tree and from the ground –
Kicking up mushrooms after a rain,
Plucking berries again and again.
To us kids he never let on
How he struggled every day long.
Such are the heroics of man –
Stoic accepting his Lord’s plan.
Thanks to my dad for being born,
That bedpost nickel every morn.
…………………………………………………
Dad was off to work before I got up . Strangely, after all these years, I prize those nickels so hard won.
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