My Father

RIP Jack Enright, 1927-2019

You might say he was not an easy man.
A prosecutor in his early days,
Something combative lurked within his ways,
Across his life, a long nine-decade span.

I don’t recall the day my life began,
But he was there, and in my memory’s haze,
I see him still, a giant in my gaze,
A loving father, head of our small clan.

His voice is in my head; his turns of thought
Are permanently burned into my brain
For better or for ill. His stories taught
That wits and guts should both be roundly brought
To bear when there is justice to attain.
Alas, I cannot shake his hand again.