What I Said to Father
by David Allen

We appraise in a shed
the stripped deacon's bench.
A word did not find its place.
We walked beneath the walnut
and oak tree.
 
My landlady has a partner.
The two are full of tired husbands.
 
Their generation knew
nothing of pleasing them.
 
In the silence found pottering
she entered the shed at the bench,
admiring her last restorative move.
 
What she overheard me say
fell against the yard's best colors.

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