From the Fishouse

Like the old rockets
let go, one by one,
of their silver-black boosters,

until they are
just a small space capsule,
light enough and free

from the earth’s atmosphere –
I’m middle aged
and watch you fall
away from me, Father,

pale in your gray business suit,
looking a little old and tired.

I don’t remember
my hand in yours,
the two of us moving
towards anything –
a game of catch, the crest

of a hill. The genetic
link locked in our bodies
seemed always

absent from the room.
There was just too much space
between us. You were
sixty when I was born.

Out here in my own
middle age, you’re not even
wearing a spacesuit.