I
can’t remember his son’s first name
And
I am sure his son remembers little
Of
him, having been only two when his father
Died
very suddenly of a burst
Appendix.
The danger to his life
Had
been disguised by his large weight.
No
one could see the scars he carried,
Stitched
by his sentiments and soaked
With
the kind of creativity that people
Would
not see in so rough a frame, lumber
And
sweat fit better than stained glass
And
poetry. Where could such loves
End
him? I hope his son will read
This
some day, not as an epitaph
Or
an elegy, but the removal of disguises.
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