Perhaps, I’m impolite
Few want to see you
cough out your life’s blood
and tell them you are
But I no longer care
For every fifty people
who ignore me
I’ll find one who lends me
a listening heart
A pair of open ears
heals a thousand
If spring follows winter
Then your eyes are the height of summer
And your lips only promise song.
Even your barbs are tender and blunted.
In anger, I still find the vulnerable shaking
Of a compassionate, easily-bruised heart
Which I once wrapped myself in on a cold, lonesome night.
Father, my father
Was a man of shadows
Who woke in the day when I was away
And who never shared our evening time meals
While I dreamed, he slotted and sorted
While I explored, he was a boulder lying,
A hard form beneath the coverlet.
I never knew him
Until he was old and gray,
Lame and wanting so much
For someone to talk to.