scott tetreault - My Father-The Butcher

Although I had not visited for awhile
the memories still stir in my brain
I see him there this commodious giant
hulking over his palette
I always gazed in amazement
What resplendent work!

He could never be a romantic
He carved, shaped and twisted
Never with brushes
His was an iron sheath
Blessed with the delicacy of a master
Monet with Pollack-esque rumination

Always gregarious; Always charming
This Degas had his way with the women
He could coax a smile through a facade of bricks
With just his standard warm greeting
Saturating a soul with honesty

For no matter the hour, he made his own time
to make sure a task fit into YOUR cycle
'It's business, ' he ceaslessy declared
So much sustenance prepared at barbarous hours
If it were ever consumed at all
This Bispam never needed hands
They would only suspend his generosity

And when it ended, there were no speeches
No bowing to applause for this Marlowe
He merely turned off the lights
And turned the key
Walking away from the craft he adored
Never receiving accolades or press
A simple, 'Thank you, '
That became his most glorious review
Then a maestro walks away and is gone

scott tetreault

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-father-the-butcher/