There's Always Sunday

And you father, will you keep me? As I age and grind away at hope I have your body, your laugh Your ability to spin the yarn, But I fear I have spun myself dry I waited for you outside the gates To change, but you are set in your Ways; as I speak out loud in circles To those that would hear me beg At the rise of suns and stars My sin is tight about my hands and neck Like outerwear for the hunter, But who am I to pull the trigger? You taught me how to be the moment You kissed me without worry of cause, or what my cheek might say to your course of action; Your need to prevail with pride I watched them cage you, and break you For no other reason than your desperation You were numbered and uniformed Behind thick glass and fingerprints I love you father, you made me smile in the face of adversity and shadow Motherless, we swing back into tense staring stances midway between the shore and the deep. I have your name, and I have your need to teach the fool This year I will be 30, and I wonder where the time went as I read your shoe boxed letters to a boy that died along the road to paradise I can count the times we smoked and drove into the vast relentless dry sands of tomorrow But I will not number the days between your old age, and my naivety. Because that would mean admitting that we are dying to forgive the momentum that sent us our separate ways My love for you is hot shaky late night sweat, and the memory of you down the hall, but you are not down the hall, that room is empty like my eyes and heart I guess, if you go before me, there will always be the chance that you might wait in death to see my life find you ready; to take me home.