Thirty Years After He Died Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

Thirty Years After He Died



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.

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