Paps Poem by Floyd Crenshaw

there is a hot coal in my father's palm
he takes them from our hearth
his hands unscathed to memory
scorched layers crust over once tender flesh

the garbage can overflows
the sunken dish-mold
the hearth under constant use
asphyxiate on ash addled air

the coals he takes
from fires,
he will claim,
he did not create.

glowing cherries swallowed whole
no pit.
they extinguish, bathe in acid
my father his insides are black
hatred coated cancer

those who do not practice introspection/empathy
will never understand love
those who hate others hate self
those searching will never find answers
punctuality will become timeless

let lives happen
love what loves you
out of body into your mind
watch the world as a
perfect ball of visual absorption

angles and angels will cease
all worldly busy work to keep man kind
away from suicide