I still smell the rich tobacco in his drawing room.
The room where he always sat: within the house, but apart from it,
And the place where later on in life he was attended to,
"made comfortable".
I see him still
by the fire, in his throne
nestled in mahogany walls,
among evidence of his prestige;
As a boy, I'd creep in slowly,
Afraid. Of him. Of the fire.
Sure that he ruled the flames,
as he did all things.
I'd ask a question, and stare
at the golden curls of the Persian rug
beneath his slippered feet.
Sometimes, he would respond.
Now, in the empty room, I look upon
the cold coals, the dusty rug,
the chair that was always
just a chair,
and I remember one of the times
that he answered me. When I told him a girl
at school had said,
"Your dad is the Devil"
He sat quiet so long I turned to leave
But then he spoke:
"There are no devils, boy
Just little girls, scared of their fate."
Benjamin Bailey is a soulless commercial litigation attorney in Fort Lauderdale, Florida who secretly writes poems. Benjamin Bailey is not his real name.