morning in the 1960s

by dm gillis

there was a blue innocence
to the razor blades my father used
meek evidence on the sink
of an early rise

the car
(and yes there was a car
as essential to a factory man
as a smooth chin)
was 2nd hand, and it
idled for him on frosty mornings
as he listened to the CBC
(the big war’s
nearly 20 years past
shall we give socialism a try?)

he was a more artful man
than a labourer could let on then —
sensitive to the solemnity
that might have torn him to pieces
(perhaps it’s why he drank
so aloofly and
could depart through walls)

antihero
(should any son’s father be)
jazz beer rough handed
ghost enough
to be a poet

 

 

 

 

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