Wednesday, March 14, 2012



Stirring

You and my dad met, finally,
In a tavern.
You trotting with a Moscow Mule,
Dad toying with his Royal Stag,
Removing bones from a pearl spot
Like an artist.

You said, shyly, ‘We haven’t met’.


He squinted at you through his Chinese eyes,

And said, ‘True.’
‘But long before I died, I had told my son,
That he will meet you sometime’.


1 comment:

a restless mind said...

I liked this one, a lot :D
Good writing! speaks from the heart .