John-Ward Leighton


My father’s footsteps haunt me down the hall.
His face smiles at me from my shaving mirror.
In my heart of hearts I still hear his call.
His good baritone voice sings in memories ear.

The clump, clump, clump of marching feet,
and he stays in step with me.
Memory: that sense of longing
to hear that he thinks of me.

He is lost in my dreams
and only comes out in the day.
He wants my attention it seems
and reminds me in this way.

We became friends only after
I had served that first three years.
At the Legion over a couple of beers
his proud introduction, “This is my son, John.”

His approval was all I ever wanted
and now his friendly ghost
has me pleasantly