Father's Day

The way this day carries on, one might think it invalid, paralyzed from neck down, wheelchair bound, unable to roll around or speak more than “yes” or “no” via blink. Or, maybe it wishes for not to sink, but to shadow itself to a moonless sound, to boil by the bay while gulls crack the ground, dead from exhaustion, seared, and charbroiled pink. But, seabird viscera sustains no Mute so cowardly as to entrap His sun which hangs suspended on enraptured thigh - no, it’s the nightingales enchanting flute that calls this day to be a darkened run, that sours sweet the spineless song of lullaby.