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Henry
Henry wasn't refined but he was revered
He was big and tall and masculine and loved to create and cook
His bottom lip sometimes stuck out, full of dip
He knew how to moonwalk and taught me math
I see him in '90s-style shirts, barefoot with weak ankles from too much high school football
I remember his skin always seemed tan, his belly always over his belt – more to love
I see him in glimmering light despite the inevitable beasts he battled
I remember he rarely seemed rattled, except for that one time that we don't have to talk about now.
How did he know how to love us?
How did he know how to be?
Why did he have to go?
Why isn't he here to teach me?
