Missing Persons Bureau

I came here to find my father
but the faces on the wall are not my father’s.

I show the interviewer letters, bills, a bank statement,
he shuffles forms. How long since you saw your father?

Twenty nine years. He takes off his glasses, puts down his pen.
What kind of son waits so long to find his father?

This man must be dutiful. Christmases and outings,
walks every Sunday to please his father.

But I’m not going to leave. I might still find him –
filed away, name forgotten, waiting to be my father.

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