My Father’s Clothes

today i tried to slip on

my Fathers coat, a heavy weight

with shoulders straight, it bent down

almost to my waist.

encloaked and wrapped,

i wore His hat, and sat

and ate like Him,

then i drank

and sipped

and thanked

and then i sipped again.

i waived a hand, and wrote a check,

jotting down an note…

but all along it wasn’t Him,

it was jut my Father’s clothes

so i tried to shout like Him,

and then i called his friends,

and with them i could act like Him

but they know it’s just pretend.

and i tasked to write like Him

and sing like He would do,

yet i only wrote my name

i only sang my tune.

so i tried to give like Him,

i scraped and lost and bled,

i showed my love to others

yet they only said,

“that love, my boy, it looks like you,

my boy, that isn’t Him.”

so i, defeated, lonely still,

packed the clothes,

finished the notes,

and gave my goals away.

only then as a naked boy

did i hear my Father say,

“where are you, where are you?

My son, My own?

I’ve found My things scattered everywhere—

but where the one that I love most?”