My other Father passed away
some seven years ago.
You’d think I’d come to grips
with all that’s past and all that’s passed.
We offer consolation to our
selves by saying things,
like, “He lived his life well!”
or “Yes, he made his peace with God.”

But something catches in my throat,
and more than that is trapped
in portions of my self-
assurance all of this is well?
I tell you when the songs he loved
Come on the radio, I smile.
But when people whom he
loved, who sang the treasured tune,
make passes of their own,
the swift eclipse of minutes stings.

No, Death may not be proud, I know,
and bells toll all the time,
yet knowing isn’t quite the same
as losing things to hold.

Yeah, I know the Wilder whispers
in your head take precedence,
especially when the walls are
closing in

in your head, where no one can see
them,

unless they look at your
busy fingers

and frantic eyes.

Life while we live
it

doesn’t talk to us
until

after the train has
left whatever station

we have pretended it idles at -
waiting for the porter

to help us board.

No poet either…

Nothing exists in a vacuum,

Except for eternity,

and yesterday,

And the seconds between

Diapering the mannequin

when you’re still peeking

Around the corner of adulthood,

and
the point where


So much depends

Upon plastic peaches

Dazed by quantum leaps

of faith that slingshot

Every breathable moment



from right now

to right then.



When and where the whole world whimpers.



You,
exasperated, and out of air,

Saw yourself living it all

Before
during
and
after
She first pedaled
on her own.
Oh,
by the way,
back.
There's no going

The bowls were in the cupboards
Were latched and closed,
Were plastic, unlocked, and pickable.
“Not in there”, but there isn’t any
Where else to go, right now
Where no one talks over her
And no one doesnt yell.

That fast the bowl’s a bike,
Sure. I’m running beside it
Sure you won’t tip, or topple
At a tilted curb or stop. My
Sore knees need ice. So,
Sore, I will when we get home
Every time I get to.

the coward in a kingdom gives me pause
when he has risen far beyond his gifts.
no merits paved the way to his assent.
In fact, no moistened bint or wat’ry tart,
had agency upon him to bestow
Excalibur, or some lobbed scimitar.

somehow the masses’ mandate lay a crown
upon a brow so furrowed with the blight
of age, indifference, and malevolence,
democracy befouled itself and hid
in closets housing only daily dread.
Imagine then a boot upon a face,
not stomping because doing so was just,
but just because the leader said it must.