A Saturday Night

My old man died on a Saturday night

I watched as he just stopped breathing

And though it was awful and painful and sad

I was glad that he wasn't alone



It felt like something he'd just had to go through;

An arduous task he'd been given

And it seemed so unfair it was his cross to bear;

The sickest and weakest of us



Oh, we never spoke much as a father and son

But we had an understanding

And I still hear his voice when I open my mouth;

In anger, or wisdom, or such



Or if I see a similar jacket or hair

I think for a moment I've found him

But then I remember

It's not about "where,"

And I know he's not lost

He is gone

I'm just glad that he wasn't alone