Father

Like the old rockets

let go, one by one,

of their silver-black boosters,

until they are

just a small space capsule,

light enough and free

from the earth’s atmosphere –

I’m middle aged

and watch you fall

away from me, Father,

pale in your gray business suit,

looking a little old and tired.

I don’t remember

my hand in yours,

the two of us moving

towards anything –

a game of catch, the crest

of a hill. The genetic

link locked in our bodies

seemed always

absent from the room.

There was just too much space

between us. You were

sixty when I was born.

Out here in my own

middle age, you’re not even

wearing a spacesuit.