The Fathers

Follow now this fold of laundered fathers
fussed-over, discreet, temperate, unrattled.
Skin plays down in mouthfuls, pretty leather
strung fancily and with great care. Settled
children pause, confessing wonder – cars
dispel with motion all the sicknesses

of standing still. At home these fathers doze
or simmer, tend the placid bathwater;
with a practised and digestible ease
express opinion. Their wedded fingers
gently tame the sugary devices
of a threatening yet sweetly toothless

age. What have our fathers brought to bloated
birth if not themselves? So happily
they sway with cargo, proliferate
...