It is this way sometimes on winter nights,
when ears expect the rhythmic crunch
of homebound walkers in the sugar-crust
of snow. You think you know the footfalls.

Those of your father as he once returned
nightly from work, with a soldier's weariness,
his topcoat a flag of tobacco dreams. Is this
senility? When all time's bridges are retreats.

The footfalls approach, pass, and fade. Someone
is going home to be kissed, to be fed, or to sit
in the company of family. It is not your business.These nights have their own wings, their own prayers.

A cigarette is your candle.
Sleep, your father...and your sons.

How you'll know me
A father's poem
By Charles O'Hay

If you find a city of steel
mountains shading sleepy luncheonettes
Know that I walked here

If you find a night of neon
kisses, in a garden of saxophones
Know that I loved here

If you find a river of iron
legs, and a thousand wooden ladders
Know that I prayed here

And in that place
we all begin, under the Heartbeat-tree
Know that I too was held

And loved
And was given sleep.

Sago
By Charles O'Hay

Today
we measure time in breaths
the swing of rusty gates
and the tune of the stonecutter's chisel.

The ground gives birth.
The ground gives death.

Boots
no longer in their place
beside the door
speak the language of coal dust.

We are iron.
We are candle smoke.