Hope springs eternal in the child whose father has abandoned him. I see this happen all too much, but lately have not been able to get these certain kids out of my mind.

They are forced to construct an image of their dad as a figure, a scarecrow, unable to flesh him out, yet revered for what they believe him to be. It's always some impossible thing: inventor, athelete, billionaire or spy.

They always believe they will get to know him when this other thing - whatever it is - no longer prevents him from being where he should be: at home with his kid.

They think he'll be this wonderful being with so much to teach them, yet they are stuck with this straw man of no substance. Perhaps the real dad has equally no substance or he'd be there.

This poem is my anger at the dads who left, my paean to the children who carry impossible hope & my appology to my own kids for all those times I have let them down.