My Father’s Clothes | Carlyle R Phelps

My Father’s Clothes:

I’ma child wearing my father’s clothes:
Shoes slappin’ the floor like a hearty “atta boy!”
Shirt skippin’ button holes and bunchin’ in corners.
Tie saggin’ with loose loops and uneven ends.
Pants slackin’, clutched in white-knuckled hands.

I’m pretending to be a weathered man,
Stompin’ to the livin’ room to add my 2 cents—
As if my wheat penny ideas were gold krugerrands.
Climbin’ furniture to see father’s and mother’s eyes,
Tryin’a emulate the calm, peace of the wise.

I’m stumblin’ over thoughts as messy as my disguise,
Recallin’ bits of stories told by some other guys—
Parroting intelligent words, in my estimation,
Landin’ a bit flat, what with no honest understandin’.
Careful now! Wisdom’s scrutiny is awfully demandin’.

I’ma play pretend until there’s no need for pretendin’;
Going from yappin’ on, to patiently explainin’—

Perhaps, and even better still…
I ought sit quietly by the windowsill.

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