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.