The Man Who Patted My Head

Every time the clock hands would stir,

My breath caught up with it,

Watching the shifts and turns,

Of time and my body aging.

Although I was a mere boy,

I understood what was needed,

The only hands that held me,

Were delicate,

Manicured,

And clean.

Not once did my father hold me,

Just a pat in the head, a kiss upon Mom’s cheek.

He came when the clock would advise,

Every day a different shift in the hands of time.

He would bring a bread,

He would bring the day’s paper,

But he would never bring himself to stay a little longer.

Saturdays for golf,

Sundays for locked doors,

Consuming his time working on folders,

Focusing my time on what carried my attention,

Sometimes cars, sometimes colors,

Never my father’s embrace,

Always my mother’s.

As time went on,

His work became his burden;

No time to check his heart.

We wore black upon his casket,

The one who did not understand.

How I missed him while the clock changed.

Before I wondered:

Who is the man, that used to pat my head?