November 11, 2016

Simple Things

I hold onto simple things,

objects from my father's war,

like his lighter and his watch,

carried in the clothes

he wore.

He never spoke

of what he'd seen,

but In his face

I could glean

what he'd been through,

long before

we all had phones,

stabbing at them

without a clue.

I keep his things

close to me,

clutching each

now that I'm old.

They help me see

just where I'm going,

following down

his lonesome road.