His eyes
are still talked about

seventeen years after
they stuck his body
in a blast furnace

People tell me
that I have his eyes

which I know,
because they are dead
and colored like ash

I never asked to be the son
of Lancelot, or to have
eyes that are a reminder of him

I have nothing to remember though,
because I never knew the man,
read more in his obituary
than I knew when he still drew breath

He was a quiet talker,
a lover, and a friend
he was never meant to be a father,
his feet could not stop moving

for women and escape
proved his character
more than softball
or hiking trips

His eyes may remain
the legacy of his choices,
blue tinted ash.

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