We try not to think of our fathers. How they, At this age or in this shirt or with that Grey stubble on their now less frequently shaved chin, Speckling a bonier jaw, a slacker jowl, a skrawnier neck - Would look. We try not to meet that old man’s Eye. How the sockets are drawn in, how It seems shinier somehow, intent on your face So as to read your thoughts perhaps anticipate Your rejection your already-forgiven guilt Your patience already wearing thin. We try Not to listen to the intensity of their speech How it repeats its urgent injunctions, its requests, its Generous bequests. When old men die We try not think of our fathers As a man who dodders where he stands. A man Who built a nation with his hands.