A Rare, Good Man Poem by Robert Melliard

I'm looking at a photo of my father.
He's wearing army uniform
and has a serious smile,
as if his fighting days had saddened him,
and taught him to distrust mankind.

From an entirely different generation,
he seemed simpler than his sons -
less obsessed with living life intensely -
more able to attend to basic tasks:
bring money home;
look after house and garden;
deal patiently with paperwork;
help relatives and friends.

He was missed by many
when cancer dragged him off.
Most, like me,
had taken full advantage of his kindness.
Few had realized
what a rare, good man he was.