(I went to a local poetry event and somewhat embarrassed a nine year old boy after speaking to his father {who was running the night} because I encouraged him to read out a poem of his own the next time it was held. He looked like he wanted to sink into the ground. Then I got drunk and wrote this.)
does he have something to burst from
tight, tight, tight, tight
long after the last of the sun’s swallowing sandbars shrink away from the tables and salt shakers
could he?
could he be his own, on his own
tight, tight, tight, tight
waiting, writing, waiting,
tight,
outside of the cigarette smoke and the apologetic obscenities,
all too aware of your presence
part of something bigger
part of something last, part of something out of place and awkward and shy by the register at the counter, all freckles and bashfulness,
too aware of your father’s bragging,
too unaware of the admiration of others,
genuine,
hazed,
blurred, out of place,
out of place.
How could you ever write words the way he does without being compared
to the way he does?
Without cursing and distracting and veering sharply away from expectations regardless of your birthrite?
You’re welcome, with your short, sharp sneezes, with your freckles and young voice
without the way your jaw drops
He knows what a eulogy is because he asked
He isn’t sure if his father lives more or less away from his cup of tea,
more or less in the spotlight and the dark red backdrop of glaring windows,
more or less in the view of fifty people, decades older than he is, an unreachable age, unfathomable in being nine, almost ten, but not, not quite
not quite,
not ever
not ever.
I could never be the lawyer that my father is, so who am I to ask you to be the poet your father is?