down the street, cars
are pulling in, tears
are walking out
looking blindly for him
the old man who read
a book for every time
he cursed and smoked
for every kiss, he wasn't
any sort of saint.
that man hadn't been
that man since the wife
passed and let the weeds
grow over the garden
do not mourn your
father now, he's been
gone for years
and years from now
sitting in the park
your kids at play
on the carousel
he will be there
and you will recognize him
inside of you
he's not so
old now.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem