We were looking for just a word
But got only the pellets in faces,
Pellets of guilt by our own men.

The word makes me feel guilty
I see pellets are in men’s faces.
It is our faces that made them.

To escape  guilt we go to crows
About whom we feel less guilty.
Crows still drop thirsty pebbles.

And then  we see old b&w dads
Who stare from photo  corners,
In rolled up shirts, sizes of sons.

Memories hit  as pellets in faces.
They make us guilty in our faces,
And dads still in size of our sons.

Dad froze at son’s present size
In vintage b&w college photos.
He is not even sepia like crows.

It is the words that connect us
As  pebbles in our men’s faces,
And dad’s face from old space.

Words are not sepia like crows
Their pebbles dropped in faces.
They make us guilty like pellets.