A picture dangling from a tree branch
balancing me on the arm of a chair
I wince and want to look away
but sometimes force myself to see
a simple philosopher of gentle lifestyle
imploring, beseeching, under Broca’s collapse
can't you read the words in my eyes?
wait! please wait, for me to say it!
unceasing enlightenment worth telling
finally, he starts to cry, but he is smiling
and holding me, and he still smells like him
I read “Things I Learned From My Dad”
which is everything that has made me human
expected the whole world to think his way,
but it doesn’t, and he can’t talk anymore
#5, “bonds are built through conversation”
only, we speak with hugs and tears now
my arm around him, I read slowly, he nods
but does he understand? Explanations are
swirling dust in sunlight, silent fog attacks
my voice, why have I been gone so long?
I still look away from this picture, though I
cherish its everlasting, like every word
he has ever spoken, and the sound of his
infectious laughter