My Santiago

You, when you discarded your body, That early workday morning with no fanfare,

and no family around, I was 2,000 miles away, painting posts; And I, I cried, Coughing up tears, Fierce and angry and sad, For you – My father.

And At your open coffin, I stood, Observing the shell of the man My father – No other. One long hair growing Defiant, on your nose, Suited, white socks – no shoes. You, with your Beau Brummel looks, Knowing full well, I would never argue, joust, hold you in this form - again! I did grieve when you died! You, with your complex, withheld love, For me!