Autumn 1960 • Vol. XXII No. 4 Poetry |

Fathers Day

He was tired Distempered and hungry From the long dusty trek, He did not know It was Fathers Day. He knew not the chariot Stuck in the narrow path, The horses foaming Under the hard impatient Blows, the old man's Hot and tired curses, And yet he was no stranger. Later the corpse was dug up The scars still fresh Under the matted hair And there the matter rests Despite gold and incense scattered Along the road To the palace door, Despite the banquet and the curious Guests. In the long afternoon Between the first curse and the last There is time for a nap In the sun-room, time To digest and forget.

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A Script

By William Stafford

He was tired Distempered and hungry From the long dusty trek, He did not know It was Fathers Day. He knew not the chariot Stuck in the narrow path, The […]

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