Fiesta Bowl on low.
My son lying here on the couch
on the 'Dad' pillow he made for me
in the Seventh Grade. Now a sophomore
at Georgia Southern, driving back later today,
he sleeps with his white top hat over his face.
I'm a dancin' fool.
Twenty years ago, half the form
he sleeps within came out of nowhere
with a million micro-lemmings who all died but one
piercer of membrane, specially picked to start a brainmaking,
egg-drop soup, that stirred two sun and moon centers
for a new-painted sky in the tiniest
Now he's rousing, six feet long,
turning on his side. Now he's gone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem