The ghosts of our fathers shall never leave us.

They hover over our lives

Like Ra over the Temple at Heliopolis.

Concentric rings from

Whiskey shot glasses 

Stain our memory.

Punishments roil within,

Rage of the hand, capricious rage 

That off-centered expectation of the real.

Sphynx silence, 

Inscrutable stares

Obliterate the overtures of love.

We let go our anger too soon,

To exchange hateful words

For fleeting moments of connection.

And then there is the tenderness

That captures our hearts,

Kiss on the cheek as we head to school.

Their reputation

Permeates the air

Like a sense of empire.

Careers that span a life

Like the Brooklyn Bridge

Across the dark waters of middle age.

Respect came to them

Like garlands on the bloody shores

Of their vocations.

In their greatest moments

They pulled the world

Into themselves and never let go.