IS YOU.

A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.

When I walk the way
you last walked
through
the park
on your way back
from the doc's,
I imagine
I see you
walk ghostly towards me,
only it isn't you,
some other,
similar in walk or frame,
my son,
the grief still there
as if it has just begun.

When I sit in the seat
you last sat on
the last day at home,
I sense you there,
your presence,
your warmth,
your silent Stoicism,
near to me,
like a deep still sea.

When I touch the tee shirt
you once wore,
I want to feel you still
as I had before,
but I  know the loss,
that reality of  you
now gone in death's
arms and hold
and sense
the chill and cold.

When I listen
to the Led Zeppelin album
you bought me last,
and hear the songs,
the guitars rise and fall
and the vocal vibrations
along the lines,
I want you back,
my son,
to hear with me
the album's rock and roll
and blues of blue,
but what
I really want,
my son,
is you.