for my father
For the first time in years, your phone calls stopped.
You were always out of town, or stuck in meetings;
by the time my mother told me, you’d been inside
the best part of a month. One night they came for you
and forty days later, you limped home, your clothes
three sizes too big. Money went missing. While
the thieves took for the hills, you stayed put, oblivious.
By the time the Law figured it out, you’d discovered
how men can be made to fit together like jigsaw pieces
when forty share a room designed for eight.
Months after your release, you wore the confused look
of a character actor left without a part. On the upside,
you ‘finally understood the appeal of Johnny Cash.’