andrew lander

tears
andrew lander

I don’t think that often
about my dead father.
Ten years now
lidded
and labeled.

But recently I see him everywhere.
The old man at the street corner
waving copies of the Big Issue,
the man leaning against a lamppost
to gather breath.

Old men with white beards
and blue eyes
wet with tears
like they’ve been caught
in a bitter wind

like my father's looked
that summer afternoon
at his mother’s
Funeral

when he looked
over his shoulder
searching for something
something
I could never
give