By Eric Farwell
My father’s gifts to my mother
Were cleanly strummed chords
And lyrics dripping with teenage
Poetry. When she was chaste
And helping him find sobriety,
He’d sit in his apartment fingering
Stray notes, feeling the hardwood
Body like it was her own. If insomnia
Came to take me, I’d slow my breathing
And imagine the songs that built
Their life pouring through the hallway.
Now you have this piece of his history,
And we have traded our hearts to new
Fine young things. Tonight I wanted
To touch the de-tuned strings and
Ivory bridge, just to feel at peace
While my partner sang miles away.
It’s yours now, though. I hope you’re
Writing songs for a good man.