He was tired
Distempered and hungry
From the long dusty trek,
He did not know
It was Fathers Day.
He knew not the chariot
Stuck in the narrow path,
The horses foaming
Under the hard impatient
Blows, the old man’s
Hot and tired curses,
And yet he was no stranger.
Later the corpse was dug up
The scars still fresh
Under the matted hair
And there the matter rests
Despite gold and incense scattered
Along the road
To the palace door,
Despite the banquet and the curious
Guests. In the long afternoon
Between the first curse and the last
There is time for a nap
In the sun-room, time
To digest and forget.
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