The Kind of Blue

-For Fathers

It was the kind of evening where you and I
were content to lay half open against each other.
Light was low and the old 1940’s windows were
pushed up to let in any sauntering breeze left in
the summer air.

You told me about the time where you waited
an hour for your father at Grand Central. The
father you hadn’t seen in years.

How you hid your hands in your parka pockets
from the cold while the train station whirled and
eddied with people old and young, going places,
coming from places.

All of them oblivious to the sway of his blue tie
over his shirt as he walked slowly towards you.

It was the kind of blue stolen from a feather,
or a frayed electric storm. The kind of blue that was kept
in good china and huckleberry. The kind of blue
you never wanted to let go of. The kind of blue that
soared through your veins.