Father

The little boy sat
on a mound of grass
with mud on his feet
and more beneath his fingers.

He wanted to
turn sticks into guns,
yards into countries,
and pets into beasts.

There were games to play,
dames to save,
dragons to slay,
shirts to fray,

but no one was around,
so he sat on his mound.

His father drove by,
off of work,
it had been
far too long of day.

He wanted to lay down,
kiss his wife,
turn on the television,
and goto sleep.

Yet he saw his boy,
not slaying dragons
or saving dames
or fraying shirts

so he parked the car,
closed the garage,
and grabbed a stick,

turned it into a gun,
ambushed his son,
played until
his little boy was done

then went
and finished his night.

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