Mike Bell/ May 27, 2016/ www.mikebellpoems.com/ 0 comments

All I have left
is a shot of my dad,
his black hair
combed hard

over that
balding spot,
one I’ve yet
to fully match:

His flat-feet lifted
onto his desk,
showing his soles
at their best,

whilst holding, delicately,
a magnifying glass,
examining nothing
for the photographer.

Quite unlike him,
it appears, easily-posed,
a black and white essay
for the local print-news.

My father, once a copper,
then ‘a fingerprint-taker’,
here framed, last sight of him,
my footprint-maker.

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