The Fatherless Son

 Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem 

He does not have a son to call him to

His mind or heart.  Instead both men are ash.

Chuck’s hair and underarms that women knew

Are now like all that druggie burnt-up trash

He smoked and dealt in on the street.  His son

Is dead. He died alone and no one guessed

For many days his night had come.  The stun

He felt inside his brain was brief, distressed

Him for a moment.  In that second he

He failed to think, “Oh, Dad!”  Matt simply died.

The druggie’s son is now a refugee

From life.  His mother and estranged dad cried.

  The son cannot recall that father now

    Despite the gorgeous curls along his brow.

~ Phillip Whidden