My father is all flattened out.
Right under the noses of the family and the neighbors,
somehow he turned into paper and slipped under the door.
He never was a giant man, just a normal, everyday-sized dad.
And he did all the normal everyday-sized things in an everyday-type world.
No one ever saw him in the newspaper until now.
One marriage, four kids, one divorce
fixing cars and playing cards and a career in government work
giving blood, giving a damn, drinking beer and wine and praying
sailing off in World War II for a world worthy of saving
loving his kids and loving his god
finding friendship in odd places -
funny how it all shrinks down to pages.
Who knew life would fit into a box – some files and frames?
Who knew that paper would become a metaphor for pain?
I’d like to leave it all out in the rain.
Forms to fill and signatures and dates to be recorded,
magazines and bills still trickle in a wait there to be sorted.
Somehow you’d think it would be more magical – worth a ticket, worth a glance –when a man turns into paper.
A one-time trick no second chance – laughter pressed into the rustling of pages, anger and sarcasm stacked up for all the ages
This is not a trick I’d pay to see again.
Should there be more than this when we get to the ending of the race?
Home movies flattened onto DVD to prevent the fading of the face?
But it’s all in two dimensions and despite everyone’s intentions,
my father is all flattened out.
David Dvorscak for Synethesia 2016