For my father (1944-1974)

To look at
you are ordinary
plain, tattered, torn, dull even,
smelling of dust and stale tobacco,
falling apart in my hands.
Your yellowing pages
are relics,
your print, at times, too small or faded,
illegible to the modern eye
used to curt and bright; backlit fonts.
No one would want you
not even at one of those suburban second hand book sales
where earnest book buyers
look for second hand bargains
and ease their conscience.
You would be
remaindered
discarded
rubbished
binned
pulped -
no doubt.

And yet, to me
you are what remains
you are multitudes
you contain universes
you are a bridge, a portal, a line of flight,
a magic mirror, a pleasure palace, a Luna Park,
a puzzle, a mystery, the straightest of lines.

How did you pique his interest, shape his thinking, change his mind?
How did you inform, enlighten, enrage? What was he bored by, emboldened by?
What did he laugh at? What left an impression? What broadened his brain?

Your sphinx-like silence
Your stoic resilience
Your stored secrets

Keep me guessing.