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.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s