fashion faux-pas
for dad
Your socks are pulled high
(mid-calf)
It’s hard to distinguish between
the gradients of white;
where cotton ends and skin begins
Varicoid veins
are gathered behind your knee
like posies of blue flowers
You turn, sit,
open the broadsheet pages
crossing your legs, make a
table for your newspaper
snort phlegm loudly,
probably without realising,
and I click up my ipod
two volume notches
but I keep looking at the socks
My father wore his the same way
now they’re in a drawer
unlikely ever to be worn again
and I’m relieved there are men left
to commit
fashion faux-pas
a role he left
when he left the world
