a poem by Frank Diamond

Limped through life
Kicking along pavements
Remnants of an injury
From Kensington’s fields
Past kept in check
Barely nodded toward

Mark Twain’s saw
About fathers, sons
Cuts dully clichéd rut
Taking much longer
For wisdom to descend
Like a Pentecostal tongue

Leaves house at night
To catch R bus’s moan
At Boulevard and C
Quiet, quiet, quiet descends
Like mist of prayer
Ascending to the heights

That’s my old Dad
Looking young, holding me
While balancing worlds,
Of worry upon shoulders
Stoic, strong, always there
And smiling straight at me