Three Versions Of My Father

My Father, The Comic

Somewhere in the alcoves a man is faint,

The set-up has cruised him through the seats,

The punchline peeled sense until the pulp of his brain,

Leaving the core like a souvenir,

Untouched even by a pun.

My Father, The Teacher

The last gray hair has the most to give away,

The patches of his beard keep us small,

And his long arm extends across the world.

My Father, The Student

At the intersection of row and column,

Into a bunker and out through a cave,

Looking down from a mountain into this age.