For my father, Ross Silver
A great man is not measured by his accomplishments,
By the money in his wallet.
Greatness is measured in sacrifice
It’s recognizing the work of the sole’s
At every shoe bottom
Sewn to heel
To walk out the door
To something greater.
We pass down carbon
Like treasured heirlooms
And though there are many days
Where I can’t manage the resources to stand
I feel your strength in my legs, sitting.
I’ve been blessed in this life
And for the nanograms
Lost in the wandering transition
From life into the ethereal
I’ll be blessed after.
You poor insomniac
Granting me pleasures of privilege
In the witching hour
As well as mid-day
In the trenches
And on their pedestal.
Who could doubt
The suffering
Of a scimitar back
Pressure treated
From years of brick and mortar?
Who could doubt
The callous hands
Of the forgotten working man?
