Keys To The Door

Today, I see my father sitting back,
lazing on a Sunday morning,
half like a man who carries a frown
from the light brown paper files
running along his chambers.

Half of him,
I cannot understand,
because he’s smiling behind the book,
which I only know from fifteen years ago,
fifteen years before I sat back
lazing on a Sunday morning,
half like a woman who carries
the frown she’s once encountered before.

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