Father’s Day

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With a gentle touch, you laid out
the constellations of my vocabulary,
delivered me from drum-kits
to tennis courts, aching from old
injury, kept calm in the thunderclaps
of my infantile reluctance to grow
into you. How can you still love
me, the usurper to your four-wheeled
driver’s seat, cut from the heavenly
template who art
and science bow down to?
Flying above you like night-time AA fire,
your contrails in the mud dare me to defy geometry—

You never laid a finger on
The stratosphere.