He’d come in the evening
When he could be gone no longer.
We children would wait for his signal
Then hide.
Sometimes he’d eat
What mom laid out
Sometimes he’d ignore
The prepared food
And just make his favorite:
Chili and eggs.
When the times were all settled
And growing up was the last thing to do,
We’d hide under
The shroud
Of those un-blessed
By their fathers
And blame his indifference
On ourselves.
-jim hill (1-23-07)
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