Dad Cave

There in the dusty corner, twelve string guitar
pin-pricked, pearl shimmering like a Sunday shines
in the house of flat carpets and concrete porches
and the film drip of your black and white studio
manufacturing memories, a loner loving, it’s hard
to reconcile the borderlands you maintained then, the
Edwardian marcher lord’s castles, banners waving
gonfallon’s drooping, welcoming the brave princes
and princesses into the porcelain backwater, the
singular place you held, the last fortress against
the padding feet, the dad cave.

It could have been a land of wonder,
a world of awe. Perhaps it was.


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