Illustration | Jennifer Fong Li Mr. Eliot, sir, you who taught me about men, and death, and growing old, About cold comings, balding Magi, and trousers rolled, Time has demanded of me to wonder, having lost the innocence of a kid, Time to ask you, ‘Why do dads die, like Dad’s dad did?’ Mr. Eliot,…
Mr. Eliot, sir, you who taught me about men, and death, and growing old,
About cold comings, balding Magi, and trousers rolled,
Time has demanded of me to wonder, having lost the innocence of a kid,
Time to ask you, ‘Why do dads die, like Dad’s dad did?’
Mr. Eliot, sir, you who told me that even men reach a mortal end,
I must lament, this, I fail to comprehend,
And like J. Alfred Prufrock measured out his life in coffee spoons,
Must Dad too, with his dad now dead, sleep away the afternoons?
Mr. Eliot, sir, should I be glad of another death?
(Such a morbid statement seems a waste of breath).
I, ill at ease in the earthly dispensation of mankind, must confess,
Enough life to grieve another Dad, I fear I do not possess.
In the cycle, the living come and go,
Dying like Michelangelo.
Mr. Eliot, sir, you who warned me that death is inescapable,
Time, I ask of you now, one small miracle,
I cannot stand to hear the mourners crying, each to each,
Can you make an exception for Dad, my peach?
