And then we see old b&w dads
Who stare from photo corners,
In rolled up shirts, sizes of sons.
Memories hit as pellets in faces.
They make us dreamy in faces,
About dads in size of our sons.
Dad froze at son’s present size
In vintage b&w college photos.
He is not even sepia like crows.
It is the words that connect us
As pebbles in our men’s faces,
And dad’s face from old space.
Words are not sepia like crows
Just pebbles dropped in faces.
They hurt us deep like pellets.