The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by David Lee Garrison


I wear my father
like a handed down overcoat.
It fits better now that I am
old enough to know what is him
and what is me. 

My hair is thinning
in the same pattern as his;
I do not accept it with his grace.
His shoes are too big for me
and our footsteps rarely coincide.

He shares sorrow
only with my mother, but joy—
his own and that of others—
with everyone.  At commencement,
I leave the other professors

and vault over a railing
in cap and gown
to congratulate a student,
just the kind of thing
my dad would do.

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