Fathers and Sons

Seen like a tower walking streets of sky,

that man would back the running boy tree-high

and reign him home to hug the woman wild

till dinner withered in the length of smiles.

Or after dark, when dreams will throw the best

of broncho-busters, nightmares rocked to rest

within those arms, tamed by a grizzly cheek,

and piped by smells of promises and sleep.

But as we grow, our sense grows so small.

That pipe took on the whiskey breath of gall,

those bristles, rubbed wrong-tempered, cut to tears,

and in those arms were all the hooves of fear.

And now, when skies have fallen and the trees

march into the past on hobbled knees,

from his proud stall the pony stamps and cries,

while hunchbacked fathers knuckle home to die.