The room is crowded,
somber, stale, dark.
A wake?
No, shiva!
(and I am not a Jew) .
The widow's look at me-
a question mark.
I don't know them or
what I ought do.
'And who are you? '
I blurt,
'I'm Marty's boy.'
Then from the back,
'Wait. Marty Fitch?
That guy with duct tape
saved my life.'
Such sudden joy.
I stood mid hand shakes, hugs,
about to cry.
He was a handy man
who knew each tool.
From holding things for him
I'm often deft.
He wanted better things for me,
like school.
I'm older now
than he was when he left.
I woke up feeling grateful,
glowing,
glad I was his son,
and proud he was my dad.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem