A poem about my father

                                                                   neither long nor short,

Has never been written.

His wife did have her share though, long ago.
Burning eyes lurking in the shade
Of her pointy hat, clothed black, she’d
Wake up witching hours with a shriek
To ride a thin stick of my body.

Him, not. Not once has he been
Described, mesoded, kenned or paraphrased;
My very own master of absence.

However unkind are my lines about her,
She at least marked her presence.
The old fart failed to earn even this much.