Opening the poet’s eye again
To film and capture for you the
Disarray of mom rubber tires screeching child
Fluttering paper sobs in the shower tired eyes
Stubborn mouth devastated clocks g’byes
And the blank spaces left by dads who are too far away

These disarrays fill my days,
but they aren’t really my days
I’m just an observer, a silent participant like the
Awkward ethnographer whose presence either
Condemns or Condones when all I really want
Is to Comfort Comfort Comfort my people….

And all the while I wonder if
Poetry should house
Beautifuller Things
And not Broken Ones

And if so,
I wonder how did We, then,
Get so Broken?

And if not,
I wonder, then,
Perhaps Things are only Beautifuller
Because they were Once Broken?

But still.
What do I tell the little girl, then,
The little girl about to become a young lady, then,
Who tells me she still
Misses the daddy she still
Doesn’t quite know?