We would've played football on Sundays
and I would've made the team.
We'd have gone to 'Father and Son Days'
and eaten hot-dogs, popcorn, and ice-cream…

And I'd have watched the mustard on your chin,
listening in awe as you belched up your beer,
and felt your razor-stubble as you'd grin
and hold me so near…

And I'd have made you very proud
dating cheerleaders and buying cars.
And I'd have been with the 'in crowd':
smoking, swearing, hanging around bars…

But when I was six months old
you left.
You gave me a body - but unsouled:
bereft.

And the void you left entered me:
a third-rate chess-player
stirring honey in his weak tea.
A dreamer, a would-be dragon-slayer…

I know when families are torn asunder
the deep wound heals quietly,
but do you ever wonder
just what became of me?
Or cry, or at least feel sad
that I never called you "Dad"?