Father and Son

Father and Son

Father and Son

In the wings there is one who waits to go on,
and another, his scene run, who waits to go.
 
I would like to think they met; if not here,
then like crossed letters touching in the dark;
 
the blank page and the turned page,
the first and the last, shadows folding
 
over and across me, in whom they’re bound.