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I want to be that,

him that stands before me.

Words flow fluently outward,

mouthed by dry lips,

come to my mind as mine.

 

Describe him as poet.

I want to be that.  One,

With so much to say.

 

I have nothing.

 

Were I to rhyme my Father,

his life and adventure,

life filled with steady ambition,

it would not rhyme,

would not be mine.

 

Should I tell of Mother,

her Italian lover,

once forbidden to her by

separate gods or fate.

 

No.  I did not feel his hot breath

in winter darkness.

 

May I describe my right fingertip,

it’s callous as it fades,

as I move from pencil, to pen,

to keys that make my music?

 

If you hear this melody,

Move closer.

 

Close to my soul lies a poet,

hidden somewhere

in the future,

when my callous fades,

I become that.  Dream, that.

 

Only when I stand alone,

life flowing from between parched lips,

words with meaning

slipped softly into new minds,

only then

will I be that.