The Shape Of My Father (A Poem)

I have seen the shape of my father
hunch and round out
as the years mistreat him
(the days are evil).
I’ve watched as his joints grow sore
and his surgery count soared
and he flips from father
to grandpa in the batting of an eye.

But yesterday I watched as he
and my mother
ding-dong ditched the neighbor kids,
leaving gumballs on their doorstep.
I watched them fleeing the
scene of the crime
as fast as their achey joints could carry them,
sprinting,
jumping over rock beds
and shrubbery,
laughing loudly together.

I don’t want to be the shape
of a grandfather,
but I want my soul to be
the shape of my dad’s.