Perhaps Ten Minutes

I wonder how we would spend the time,

my father and I, if we were able, somehow,

to share a few minutes together.

Perhaps ten minutes would not be too much to ask for,

to initiate, develop, and then conclude

our father-son relationship.

‘Hello,’ I would start. ‘I’m your son.’

I know, he would reply. You have my eyes and beard.

‘How about a quick sketch?’ I would ask,

and he would scribble one in my notebook.

How about a poem? he would ask,

and I would hand him ‘Song to My Father’,

a copy of which I’d brought along.

We’d strum a couple of guitars and sing a song.

Perhaps ‘Imagine’, which I’d come across

in his record collection; in keeping with the original

to start with, but finishing in daft, mock-operatic voices.

I’d ask him for one piece of advice

and he’d say, You’ve got to be joking

and I’d say, ‘Of course I was joking.’

Then we’d pour a couple of too-generous measures of Bushmills

and drink a toast. ‘Here’s to us!’ we’d bellow,

clink our tumblers, and glug.

He’d give me a look. My look.

I’d raise an eyebrow,

and we’d both look at the bottle. And laugh.

A silence would follow.

I’m sorry this never happened, he’d not say,

and I wouldn’t reply, ‘It is what it isn’t.’

A farewell and we’d be back

to our respective planes of existence,

slightly less sober; both of us reflecting on how

two people not meeting each other can happen to anybody.