Father would stare from his corner
Of space in time from an old trunk
That smelt iron and old moth-balls.
He looked like my own school self,
A bit lost in space, in shirt-sleeves
Tucked to elbow, not much in eyes.
He would stay stuck in the corner
With no knowledge I was coming
With future that meant his going.
There was space only for one of us.
He stays wedged between old heads
Staring at old space unremittingly.