Never boring, the large Slav is late.
Dressed like his court jester,
he isn’t suave. His complexion is pasty
and graying hair frames his wrinkled face,
his eyes are bloodshot and exposed.

His pock-marked cheeks, lightly freckled,
used to bounce when he’d laugh
and sing to his little girl
as he ushered her to sleep.
Being a father gave him meaning in his palace,
the light of the empire, the patriarch
of this callous world.

07/02/2006

Posted on 07/02/2006
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