My Dad

Sat in his armchair.
Slippers worn and torn,
Face unshaven, Hair disheveled,
What was he thinking.
A cigarette hanging from his lips,
The ashes on his cardigan,
Like fallen snow.
I knew he loved me,
But he never said so.
Nor did he ever give me a hug,
That would be sissy.
He missed my ma as I did,
And seemed not to care anymore.
A cantankerous old git,
But I loved him.
Now he was in the autumn of his years,
One day he woke up and was old.

by Joseph Doyle

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