I Never Lived With My Father

I Never Lived  With My Father

 

Today I’m wearing my father’s shoes.

Gray McGregor casuals with Velcro straps,

that were given to me when he died.

 

He stored them in shoetrees and kept neatly

in his landscaped closet.

 

I’m afraid that when I take them off, they’ll get thrown

into my pile with the stray tie

that’s slipped down in wrinkles and disuse.

 

I want to feel different in my father’s shoes.

Maybe I will osmotically become a golfer

or acquire a knowledge of how to fix jukeboxes.

I search my arm but the tattoo of his name has not appeared.

 

There should be some connection to these shoes.

I made a ceremony out of not putting them on until I was ready.

I handled the smooth leather and admired the clean soles.

 

“Dammit Dad!”

 

Nope. Nothing there.

Another gravestone that doesn’t talk back.

 

I made up a story to tell his wife about how I felt

the first time that I wore them. She looked confused

and said, “Isn’t that strange, he never got to put them on.”