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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=368686" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Father, Again, Peering</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=368686" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The final years dear Mother she<br>was never, well, what actors call "on location."<br>Physically, of course, we found her<br> <br>everywhere: <br>the parlor reading, <br>the kitchen ironing, <br> <br>the basement weeping, <br>unlike Father whom we never found<br>though he was always there. <br> <br>On Sundays when he went to Mass, <br>he'd stay behind, peering.<br>Like Queeg, he'd stare </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=368686" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">from under or behind<br>whatever he wasn't <br>hiding in front of.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Donal+Mahoney">Donal Mahoney</a></strong></div>

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