My father was a scientist
spent nights in the basement mixing yeast, sugar and dried fruit;
sometimes arguing with shadows and singing rude songs.
Submerged in mornings looking hazy eyed and tired,
put his trousers under the mattress,
to keep the press and collapsed on top of the bed.
Mother, tired of his endless experiments,
told him to go somewhere else
preferable to a much warmer place.
Last time I saw him was on the bus going into town
I was eighteen then
and knew a bit more,
mortified me by crying, calling me his son.
Didn’t know that he had died before mother told me
“An unfulfilled man” she said
and to my surprise was moved to tears.