A Letter to My Father's Posture

[i sit penchant,
hidden from the world,
cawing a letter,
to my father's posture.]

standing tall he once conveyed,
while I, hunched and slacking,
mistakes he once had made,
of motivations lacking.

bent,
curled to weighty pasts,
protecting full but slow,
eaten repasts.

he would say 'sit up straight!'
'get up son or you'll be late!'
why was he so hard on my soul?
was his heart so filled with coal?

What caused so much stress,
What cause for him to address,
All the things I did wrong,
and sing that incessant song.

i see him different all of a sudden,
less bent than woken,
simply trodden,
having passed his token.

i look at him all wise and new,
each day a battle to find a shoe,
his posture twisting and contorting,
and through his stuff I'll soon be sorting.

but now we sit by the warm stove
after being at the store, (i drove),
he looks at me, posture forgotten,
'you see the shoes that I've boughten?'

-NSH