MY FATHER

My father spent much
of his life on his knees,
not praying,
but working.
Or, if his work
was his prayer,
it was a prayer
that he answered
himself, supporting
a wife and
eight children.
He supported us,
not on a farm,
as his parents had done,
but in the city.
If work was
his prayer,
it was a
mighty one.
Like John Henry,
he deserved a song,
and at least
one poem.

7/17/15