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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.
Copyright ©
Chinedum Ekwobi
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