I hear the car thunder over the bridge,
plowing over the white stones once more—
around the graphite circle
like it's done a million times before.
He took them for water ice—
from my window I stare;
he's wearing the beige dress shirt
and it complements his graying hair.
He loves his sons
but he believes love resides in green paper
when it lay hidden behind his voice;
did we even stop to listen for the deeper layer?
All but two have grown—
taken what he's given and haven't returned;
with his head in his hands, he lets out a quiet moan,
'this is not the life I had planned.'
Nine boys and a single girl
to grace their humble home,
in a world of oysters—she was told she was a pearl
and stories of love filled her wherever she went.
When did she turn cold?
When did he rely on temporary highs to satisfy?
Perhaps when sadness became his mold,
deepening the wrinkles around his eyes.
What are the honest words you couldn't afford to say
to a daughter whose heart is broke
by a boy who said—'baby i'm here to stay, '
and left like ashes from a summer flame.
Daddy's Little Girl,
what does that mean?
For it turns out I am not who you thought
'cause it's not like you said it would be.
Never mentioning the deception in the stories of love,
now I've run back to this hide-away—
and suddenly I'm not half the girl I was
when I left years ago on that August day.
Was it that I just never knew how to ask,
what do I do when love gives me a taste?
It's too late, but I'd do anything to wipe that look
from upon my daddy's face.
You never knew the secret to unfolding love;
somehow—someway, someone else had won.
It's far too late now—you're dried up like a dream.
He peers at you over the coffin:
why didn't we get the lace seams?
(written for my Pops, Mar '05)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem