He touched me, with his plaintive attitude,
his passive grief about his wayward son,
his collared shirt, his wide-waled pants, his mood
responsive, his decision none.

I heard him call his home, and there record
a message on his answering machine.
But we both knew that he’d retrieve each word
he left for absent ears, gone at 13.

There lurks a kind of valor in the look
of quiet worry, desperate silence, pain
brought on oneself. He weathers like a brook
in storm; he cries inside his winter rain.
It hurts too much to watch for me to know
a benefit from having told him so.