Fathers, sons [poem]

"I missed him today,"
     she said
"I can't get him out
     of my head."
Perhaps he's missing; perhaps
     he's dead.

Yesterday I saw you sitting there

right there     

and now no matter quite how hard

I stare     

 I only see                              

an empty chair    

"I know what you mean"

     I sighed.

"My sons grew up, my father
     died."
She understood; I smiled;
    we cried.

Sometimes someone sits there in

your place     

They sympathise and somehow

fill the space     

I nod along and think about

your face     

I said: "We have to focus on

     the joys -
the love, their smell, the grace, their life
     their noise - 
our love-until-we're-bursting
     grown-up boys."

My father may have gone: my boys

are near     

and though they are and must not be

right here     

tomorrow night we'll meet

and have a beer