The Man In The Pictures
You were camouflage mornings
and Busch Light nights,
mud on your boots
and laughter in your eyes.
A little wild,
a little stubborn,
all heart.
You held babies
like they were the most fragile miracles,
taught them early
how to ride,
how to hold on,
how to be proud of where they came from.
You smiled crooked
when you thought no one saw,
flipped off the camera
like grief would never dare to touch you.
But now the silence roars
where your voice used to be.
Still—
you live in the scent of oil and earth,
in the deer stand at first light,
in the grip of tiny hands
wrapped around a steering wheel
you once guided.
You live
in every picture tacked to the wall
with roses and pins and aching love.
And you live
in me, the mom who still can’t bring herself
to wash your clothes—
because they still
smell like you.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
