Contours For Gazing - Autobiography Ghosted By Father Poem by Warren Falcon

He has the look of one who cuts his own hair.

The scar between his ears, broad,
stretches contours for gazing.

Something happened.

One cannot think ill of him who now
eschews any man with blade or shears,
his face is proof enough not to trust.

Still, he walks upon the world, a gash in air
which does not care for looks of any sort.
Frightened children do not cry though their
play is stopped. Bullies cross the street,
heads low in leather, trying to be invisible.
Dogs suddenly silence remembering to
quickly go where their tucked tails point

- away.

Nothing can undo a look which undoes many.

He carries his book, large, heavy,
front cover turned into his tweed,
tucked under his arm, something
he can hide while the title he is

screams.

He, like the dogs, is silent needing
speech no longer. People have not
heard him when he once did speak,
do not hear isolate ongoing moan
his face has become, large, Biblical
in proportion to grief he tucks
beneath the other arm

wishing no harm to the world.