The Fathers of Night

The old men who sit in the sky

with their giant shadows

creating darkness—

Father Time

and his gang of geezers—

hammer us to sleep with cosmic

punctuation marks. Shooting stars give them

something to do, like shooting skeet.

A gold key unlocks the ages.

A dirty joke,

small talk and cards,

until they snuff their cigars

for a century or so

and evaporate

like the dim print

from a stuttering teletype…

mere headlines wired from lost planets.

My father’s father, and all

the fathers of night, who keep us

waiting for tomorrow.