Monthly Archives: May 2013




There is a certain purposeful way
In which my Father works
Which puts me in touch with more of myself

His busy, rough hands are what define him for me
Although he wouldn’t agree
He has tile grout or dirt in the tiny cracks of his finger skin
He always has done

You might think he works quietly; no
Always singing or whistling
Replacing the words he can’t recall with his own
Repeating often heard anecdotes
Or telling me what I’m doing wrong

It’s me up here, tiling with Dad,
Not my husband or the boy that never was
There is a inevitability to all this

I should be here with him,
This Saturday,
Filling in the cracks.