34. Look, daddy, look

In Serajevo, long before the insanity broke, 
we stood leaning on a bridge, each other, and you spoke 
look, daddy, look, and you pointed at I know not what,
I had eyes only for you. A minaret, perhaps, now reduced to ruin.

A bit later we rolled, overwhelmed by lust, in a patch
of garden, next to a gate, barely covered by roses, unlatched,
where later a sniper took aim. I still taste in your hair
the dust we kicked up, feel a pebble that pricked in my back.

You sought in me what I could not offer,
a shoulder of tweed, scent of a pipe, the father
you lost. And I was the young lad of love, who
worshipped you, reaching but never reaching, nor reached.

Do you recall, or has it all gone, disappeared,
the moments that still the ticking, the pricking pebbles
of time, the taste of dust, now settled, and gone. Or is it not 
all undone, osmosis in the midden of your mind?