my father's clothes

today i slipped on my father’s coat, 
a heavy weight with shoulders straight, 
it hung down almost to my toes.

encloaked and wrapped, i wore his hat, 
and sat and ate like him.
then i drank and thanked and sipped
and then i sipped again.

i waived a hand and wrote a check,
jotting down a scribbled note,
but all along it wasn’t him
it was just my father’s clothes.

so i tried to shout like him,
and then i called his friends,
at least 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
and i only sang my tune.

so i tried to give like him,
i scraped and lost and bled,
i showed my love to others
but still they only said,

“that love, my boy, that looks like you, 
and boy, we’re sure to know,
‘cause our suits ‘re worn in the same place, 
we’re only reaping what we’ve sown;

“sure, our lamplight’s found an outlet
sure, it flutters in the wind,
but we’re sure to keep it quiet ‘n low,
so not to disturb the local residents.

“yes sir, the locals here, my son,
they’re rough and rowdy crew,
careful not to get too close
or they’ll have their way with you;

“betwixt the book and crooked path
there’s a long and mountainous road,
but rare a man e’re take that route
and ne’re a bloke returneth home.

“we’ve a saying ‘round these parts, my son,
that’ll be a shield for your soul,
‘don’t dare ask the sordid questions
or you’ll soil e’ry suit you own.’”

i hung my head and turned around,
i packed the clothes, finished the notes,
and gave my goals away.

only then as a naked boy
i heard my father return and say, 

“oh, my son, where have you gone?
i’ve left behind my heavenly robe 
to scour the towns, walk the mires,
and finally give the ghost;

“i’ve found my things scattered everywhere,
but where’s the one that i love most?”