Look at you
in that suit,
your hair slicked back
just so to cover that bald spot;
talking down to your flock;
speaking as if
your words
came from the most high, Himself,
whoever that is.
A great man of God,
they call you
and you would say
the same.
They sit row by row,
clinging to your words.
In a pause,
you draw a hankie
from your suit jacket
and wipe from your brow
the sweat brought on
by the big, bright lights.
Cutting your eyes over to me.
A dirty look given
by a great man of God,
meaning, Sit up straight.
'Straight to Hell,'� I mutter.
Who are you?
I know.
Just this morning
you were yellin' at your old lady.
Who are you?
I know.
I know who you are.
Dad.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...