My father

His hands smudged with

The shadowy grease

Of tomorrow.

His eyes filled

With mist of the midday

Lull, twinkling amongst

Chevrolet hoods and Blue Rhino tanks

He walks

From the obsidian gates he was

Forced into, as soon as

He was old enough to vote.

Back to the

Apartment where the massive men sat

In velvet chairs

Sewed from the flesh of 

The people they “cared” for.

And as the sun

Continues to dart

In an endless game of tennis

With its celestial gaggle

Papa and I

The eyes gone awry

Like a clique of umbragen

Hornets, stabbing their

Basaltic staves into

Furnaces of creativity

They’re scared

By the fire and

The embers

Of solidarity

As me

And my

Father evade

Those same chairs

Of lies

And cries.