THE CATCH (IN LIFE'S LITTLE LEAGUE)
for my father
The only softness of your leathery skin,
the wrinkles that lid your eye,
your practice is to shut them firm
and then let them yawn an empty, disappointed, sigh;
I spectate how you've worn them thin
with very little to say.
The same routine you taught me many a time
but I never learnt to play,
using them-sarcastically-to mitt-the eyes
that are thrown away
for your son, "the successful one", who's come home;
"This time," he says, "to stay".
If only I could communicate
that in those few seconds
your eyelids hover
drooping expectant dismay;
all I'm thinking
is I love this man.
The catch is how to say.