Fathers - Bruce Moody

[Larry Robinson]

Fathers

 
The  sail is up and the white boat smooths the river’s skin

steady as it  makes down the river to the bay as though

an engine drew it, which perhaps it does.

 
Fathers are such craft. We do not know what drives them.

All we know is the glamour of our attention.

 
The white boat gives no answer, too far off for us to hear an engine go.

But fathers, like a prayer, move by a mute murmur past

and far. We  relish them. We do not know them. We see

their back bend as they rustle leaves for chestnuts 

the rats have not consumed, and we

find the shavings in the white sink odd.

We wonder at their idiocy, constancy, strength.

We wonder where their past lives went, so far gone

not one stain remains to tarnish and enliven them.

 
Did they play with toys? Wet their pants? Did they run and scream?

Fathers? Unimaginable. 

Because all we see we admire.

 
We admire with big hearts, with hearts of awe. 

We are ready to approve without doubt

the genius and the mystery of the male that made our

bread.



	- Bruce Moody


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