Watching My Son Play Guitar

There is a sadness in his eyes
he must have inherited
along with a an ear
from ancestors, some whom
he hardly knows.

There is a grace that I envy,
a violence sublimated
by attentive skill
I can only admire.

Sure, I’m one of those dads
that I never always wanted to be,
one that I can’t resist being.

Eyes contorted in reverent silence,
head bent close to hear his god

I cannot look away.