- this year -
I have come
to know that
I have crafted
enough verse
and
long form words
o’ telling
o’ wonder,
o’ beauty,
and o’ integrated,
rapturous awe.
Enough words -
by
the pound -
to pen a handful more
about Dad’s death - jumping
as he did - in
between the cab
and mixer of
a cement truck.
The pain, far too
much for him to bear.
It is really about
percentages - at this point.
How much -
what amount - may
be shared in and
among all I have had
and do now
offer.
I need to be able to
sprinkle his agony
over enough other sounds
that it fits comfortably
between and amidst
the whole of them -
not so much as to
smother my poetic
nod and recitation of
what I am here to
report
on all other matters
of this life I have
beheld.
Enough - but not
too much - so as to be able
to add in that his father
had killed his wife
and then himself.
Enough to then
just leave off adding any
other rhymes or
caesuras or tropes
as I lay it here
and walk
slowly and
backwardly
away, thankful
for the reader
who holds
words
with grace
and tender understanding
of human pain.
Missing him the
more in and
among the pounds
and percentages.
I have crafted enough
verbiage across my days
to line these word
side by side
together
in and among the
percentages and pounds
of words
and feel safe on
standing firm on
the soil of my experience
and of my life.
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