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Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #1693094
Early childhood memory that sometimes surfaces just before waking
The Hands of my Father
Sun spread in greeting
Knotted fingers curving
To swoop and  to grasp
I raise my arms and  hold my breath in
delighted  anticipation
of the stench of tobacco
and the sweet smell of
Guinness on breath

The view from snug perch of his elbow
Holding  the skin on his neck
The rough dry lipped kisses
to my chin eyes and nose
The deep rumbling laughter
from his chest enters mine
and up I rise

to wakefulness
as the alarm alarms me
dream fades
morning marches in
things to do
line up in my mind
things to say
join people to see
and places to be
and rush to join the cue

I wash, brush, dress
Grab my keys
speed trough the tunnel
through the long parentles day
Until the hands of my Father
Reach out to grasp again
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