a deconstructed pantoum

There was a time
my father and I shared
the same air.

I’d been new to this
world, with so many days ahead,
but now

his smile is static in the silver
picture frame, his face weary
yet youthful
in the afternoon glow.

This world was news to me,
many days lay ahead
for me,

while his breaths were numbered
inside his chest, his tired face
youthful yet
in the evening gloam,

his presence closer than
my skin, my bones.

Though his breaths were
numbered inside his chest,
he used to jog, numb,

along wind-battered Ocean Drive.
His presence closer
than my bones, my skin,

I wonder if my footfalls
ever fit perfectly into his.

Once he jogged along the
wind-shattered ocean, but
now his smile is static
in the silver picture frame.

I wonder if
my footfalls ever fit perfectly
into his—

there was a time
my father and I
shared the same air.