My Old Man

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Their colors show no sign of
excitement, or emotion.
My old man, like the inanimate hat,
hardly ever speaks.
Both have accomplished much,
but through their looks:
Worn, rugged, old,
sweat filled from hard work,
neither boast with pride.

The rough feel of it,
His five o’clock shadow
As my Dad, like the hat, sit in the corner of rooms
Other things talking.
The story’s on the inside,
You don’t know anything by looking





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