"Father and Son"

So as I drive past the barber today,

an old man walks arm-and-arm

with his middle-aged son who dons a fresh hair-cut,

a lollipop, and a wide grin under his neat salt-and-pepper hair.

The father walks cautiously, as if on ice,

clutching onto his son as if teaching him

to skate for the first time, the son overanxious

and excited about his trip to the barber,

much taller than his father but still very much, a boy.

I imagine the elderly man raising his adult kid,

needing to curb and also embrace

his son’s excitement over neatly trimmed side-burns,

I imagine the odd question about whether his adult son

could please – PLEASE – have a lollipop.

I imagine the need to hold his son’s large hand

so he doesn’t run across the busy street on the way to their van.

And I imagine the father, late at night,

his son finally asleep, the questions and the daily outbursts

all resting under the too small Superman blankets.

The father closes his eyes and tries to sleep,

a kaleidoscope of regret and joy disturbing his rest.

He is haunted by images of his friends’ healthy families,

the joy of grandchildren,

those tiny hands around his neck he’ll never know.

Surrounding these images of the perfect family

is always his own broken son, his smile as constant

as his joy at seeing his dad enter his room

to pick out his clothes and wish him ‘good morning.’

Sleep finally comes as his own son dreams

in a room that hasn’t changed in decades,

dreams without aspirations and regrets, without jealousy and hate,

just imagining a perfect haircut in the mirror,

ice cream dripping down his chin,

his father choosing just the right socks,

and holding dad’s hand for ever and ever.

The baseball players on his walls lull him to sleep

until he wakes up to Frosted flakes

and his father’s veiny hands folding over

the Velcro on his sneakers,

keeping everything together.