Fathers And Sons

We fear
the haunted baggage
under their eyes,
their hands
nervous on probable weapons
in their pockets.

How crisply they turn
at the slightest sound behind them
to survey the room
with an apparently random glance.

Is there any hope
for these dented sons
of warriors?

This is my father’s house,
they say,
and my father’s fortress,
and all of you are enemies
until my father’s wisdom
proves otherwise.

We knew their fathers well,
too well perhaps
to trust the sons.  Our fathers
taught us how to read
between the lines
on their faces,
after all.