Every Day is Like Sunday

I really miss my dad.
But He’s not dead.
He’s just living somewhere else instead.

He’s in my eyes
’cause his were just as blue.
He’s in my feet
because his turned out too.
He’s in my laugh
especially when it’s too loud.
He’s in my voice
whenever I seem proud.
He’s in my frustration
when I have to wait.
And my anxiety
whenever I’m running late.
He’s in my hands
when I’m working, concentrating.
He’s in my voice
when things are aggravating.
He’s in my shoulders
when they round and shrug.
He’s in my arms
whenever I need a hug.
He’s in the gray hair
that grows along my part
He’s in the lawnmower
when I can’t make it start.
He’s in my tastebuds
whenever I drink a beer.
And whenever I feel sad,
I know he’s near.
He’s in the shadows
when it’s too dark to see,
whenever I get scared
he’s there with me.
He’s in the car,
underneath the hood.
He’s in everything that’s real and true and good.

He’s in the ocean, the sunshine,
he’s raining from the skies.
He’s looking at me through my daughters’ eyes.

And when I’m feeling sorry for myself,
He’s looks at me from the frame upon my shelf
And reminds me that he really isn’t dead.
He’s just living somewhere else instead.

************

This entry was posted in Breathe, Greasy Kid Stuff, It's All Yoga, Poetic License. Bookmark the permalink.

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