Papa's Ears
There’s a hole in Papa’s ears where all the words go,
Where they compete with all the headlines of the day.
The closer that I get, the farther away I seem to be,
’Cause there’s a hole in Papa’s ears where all the words go.
We don’t talk much anymore — I don’t have much to say.
Hell, he couldn’t begin to understand me anyway.
So we pass on by, locking eyes with the shadow on the wall,
’Cause there’s a hole in Papa’s ears where all the words go.
We live in different worlds, and we talk a little more —
A little more than the weather or what’s coming up today.
And it comes to me, more than occasionally,
That even I can make the headlines of the day.
Now a father of my own kids, screaming in the lawn,
I try to lean back and relax after a full day’s run.
But the thoughts fly by and echo through the pines,
And I can’t help but think of the hole in Papa’s ears.
I visit Papa every Tuesday afternoon in the home —
His sunken shadow drapes the wall near his chair.
I tell him about my day and what’s going on at home.
In his eyes, a fog I just can’t seem to get beyond.
I think about the words, but it doesn’t matter anyway —
All the things I meant to say that were not meant to be.
So I just sit, staring at the sunken shadow on the wall,
’Cause there’s a hole in Papa’s ears where all the words go.
Walking through the trees, the leaves crunching underfoot,
Across a farm of forgotten souls to the spot reserved for he,
I talk to the name and gaze at the dash that created me —
Words of the soul from a man that now better understands.
The dash soon forgotten as just a life — to me, it is a wish,
A wish for one more day, a wish to share my gratitude.
So I say I love you and goodbye, but only to the breeze,
’Cause there’s a hole in the ground where all the words go.
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