So slow, the parade of ships

Up the drippy Hudson, and I stand watching

With the other daddies through

Windows tall as closets

Through haze as thick as phlegm

Silver glints upon the water;

Reflections of a dying sun gone

To grave too early on this fetid

Afternoon. I am roses and riotously

Attired in casual clothes, while some of

The stiffer dads around me

Wear ties and blithely talk

Of what they think they do.

I see the young girls yawn

And the older ones seek appreciation

In an admiring stranger’s eyes

I see hearts deflated like balloons

I see spirits wearied by the dust

Of yet another politically correct

Invention by the Hallmark crowd

We took our daughters to work

And felt like kings

Though the work we do

Is futile,

Its true worth measured often

In coins of ash and bone

On the elevator, a man

Longs for a cigarette and

Speaks of leaving his daughter

Home. “She knows enough of what I do,”

He says, “To not want any part of it.”

And after his first lungful of Marlboro

On a downtown street, he goes on

“Maybe that’s the point.”

07/08/2003

Author's Note: More allegotrical than real..although the sentiments are dead on reflections

Posted on 07/29/2003
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch