I don't remember my own father much.
He died before my fourteenth year was done.
With older folk he had a gentle touch,
with younger ones he joined in simple fun.

We asked for toys we did not really need
and many times he bought our hoped for joys.
One Christmas bubble lights he heard us plead
and soon the shimmers mixed with playful noise.

I think if only I could know much more
but wonder then if more would sadden me.
A life that spends its force on things before
is wasting openings for what can be.

Reality, away from me keep far
and end your day with whiskey and cigar.