trimming
my father
tall and lanky
briefly looking the Irishman
he was (but never mentioned):
white forearms
with dark, feathery hairs
languid fingers built for piano
an army flattop
and a shiny class ring
poised
over a friend who’s praying
Bill will clip his thicket of hair
faster than a parent can drive
my dad’s short-sleeved Henley’s
just like the one
I stole from my mother’s drawer
to bridge the gap
between the ‘60’s and me.
he’s focused and bemused
but there’s something off-putting
in those intense Goyaesque hands
that I noted on the hospital bed
and his cheekbones honed by hunger
today a man I never met
gifted me a revelation:
our parents had lives
we know nothing about
plus there’s still an awkward teenager
in every one of us
