A Father’s Sunday by Andrew B. Lucke

Turn back the lapel
   black, the only suit I own
Hadn’t she promised
Didn’t she lie

Wasn’t it my promise 
   to show the way

How cruel the thought 
left behind cold and narrow 
   but for the red rose 
   pinned to my jacket

Yet to remain the wheel
   whose teeth are worn smooth
I’ve carried the burden of our people
   through the flame
   the fire
   the loss
      left with but scars on my soul

Bent and slow of gait
My hand full of verse
   fails the 50-year union

Didn’t she lie
Hadn’t she promised
that I should show
   our way to death