Down the worn carpet
baby blue, but beloved to the door
I was so familiar with touching
My feet, small then
led me to the bed
where my father stood
oddly haggard as he woved,
peice by peice
his strewn wardrobe.
‘Father‘ asked I
Little voice.
‘Where are you going?”
His answer was vague even now,
mumbled by a shy man
He always has been.
But on return his reply quavered
‘I’m not coming back’
And his grey socks
fell into the abyss of his bags.
This poem actually got published when I was younger. Totally wrote it off of the seat of my pants. I hadn’t thought of my second dad, the man my mother married when I was three, for years. Totally makes me sound emo, doesn’t it?
Author T.S. Lowe 