“I could never have slept
with him,” you say
from three thousand miles.
“I'm not
criticizing but you
must have
hated yourself
to do it.”
How can I tell her
what her father once was:
gifted, elegant,
pale brown skin,
that occasional smile.
I walked past him
through swinging doors
carrying heavy trays.
Princess of faculty dining
I remembered
who took coffee
with milk
and who drank tea;
Prince of all the rest,
tables of students,
the waiters he commanded
with a nod,
he sat aloof but
in control.
You tell me, “He’s bald
and old and ugly
of character.
He was gone
before he went.”
I want to
persuade you he was once
so fascinating
I never imagined
he'd even
talk to me.
Published in Family Reunion, Poems about Parenting Grown Children, Chickory Blue Press