Concrete (Poetry)

I have a tiny creased black and white slow-fading photograph —
father walking down his concrete garden path
in shirtsleeves — braces the dark cross he always wore
upon his back.

The tension in his body caught as though in flight
he strides away impatient from that year and time
my innocence observed him — took him down
in grainy light.

His distance and the shutter kept apart
what never could be touched right to this day.
I have the proof — he turned
his face away.