Sometimes My Son.

Sometimes

when it's quiet

I think I hear him

coming in the front door

for his evening meal

and watch a game of football

with his brothers,

but it's just a memory

adding stuff from the past,

or now and then

I feel his hand touch my arm

to wake me

from my old man sleep,

but I know he is not here

death claimed from our hands

that painful Monday

some little time ago,

but often I forget

for a moment or two,

and think my son,

that it is you.