I don't own.
I rent.
This house,
for instance,
is not mine,
nor is this sunshine
warming my face
as I stand in the yard
facing west.
My neighbors
own their houses
but I don't own mine.
The wife
flying in
at 4
is not mine
but someone else's
-she's mine for the day-
like the car
she'll rent.
And this card
I'm reading
in my friend's house
is not
from my daughter
but his:
This touching testimony
of love
for a father
was not meant for me
yet here I stand
reading it
renting it
learning
in my renter's way
what it is like
to be a father
to live in a house
to have a wife
to have one's face
warmed
by the light
of the
rented sun
in one's rented yard
in one's rented life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem