'Pop' My Rock Poem by Bill Grace

Dad, I hope you know
How good you truly were
Despite tri-decade war
With a son who only very slowly understood.

The day I burned your timber reserve
And trembling went to tell you
To muted staff amusement
My fear did not anticipate your congratulations
That I had cleared that blasted dump!

I just wish you had come to hear me speak
Languague always seems to have been my thing
Charming Mary Pickford at four
Only presaged words before the assembled
But it was much easier to find me in the paper
Than to come and listen to your son.

You built your school
I earned degrees
And far too late
We found each other.

I went crazy at your death
Worked at baking bread armadas
Worked with kids off the street
The military was actually vacation
From the pain of losing you with out good by
For you never saw me speak
To a small ocean of the young
And do it well.

My fear is heaven won't be place
And I will go into that night
Crying with despair of your not being there
That we might continue to repair
The carnage that false pride worked
Between a father and a son who knew only how to speak.

Dad - shoes and a watch was not enough to give
From a fairly humble kid
Who didn't know that more than anything
I just wanted your arms of love.