by Glen Martin Fitch
The room was crowded,
somber, stale, dark.
A wake?
No Shiva!
(and I'm not a Jew).
The widow's look at me,
a question mark.
I didn't know them or
what I should do.
"And who are you?"
I froze.
"I'm Marty's boy."
Then from the back,
"Wait. Marty Fitch?
That guy with duct tape
saved my life."
I felt such joy.
With hand shakes, hugs I stood.
I thought I'd cry.
He was a handy man
who knew each tool.
From holding things for him
I'm sometimes deft.
He wanted better things from me
like school.
I'm older now
than he was when he left.
I woke up feeling grateful,
glowing.
Glad I was his son,
and proud he was my dad.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011