My Dad Poem by rich soos

there's no need to dream his face
I see it daily in the mirror
but I dream his hands
tenderly cutting the nails
of mom's twisted arthritis

as fresh as the day they occurred
are memories of days his hands held
my sisters small and screaming
tenderly knowing the power
in holding them close

and the days he spent with me
at the kitchen table teaching
the mysteries of the slide rule
tenderly explaining the importance
of tools to examine life

his hands killed for his country
and wiped away his tears
each time the awful thoughts
tenderly invading his nightmares
returned

I reach for his hand
after shaving his whiskers
one last time both knowing his
tenderly shrinking body was very
near his final ablution

from Insecurities (2005)