For A Father
With the exact length and pace of his father's stride
The son walks,
Echoes and intonations of his father's speech
Are heard when he talks.
Once when the table was tall and the chair a wood
He absorbed his father's smile
And carefully copied the way that he stood.
He grew into exile slowly
With pride and remorse,
In some way better than his begetters,
In others worse.
And now having chosen, with strangers,
Half glad of his choice
He smiles with his father's hesitant smile
And speaks with his voice.
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