The Doctor's Son Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Walking, with pearls on his fingers,

One for each ear

Your ears,

Curved like hills,

Plush like meadows

Buried in the sand, languid toes

Traversing the road,

Forked and ambivalent

In the storm’s hazy somnolence.

In anticipation,

You wait for him

With no traces of the Sun,

“Where is he? ” You asked,

“Is he not, the doctor’s son? ”



And you’re meeting him on a Sunday,

Where we used to meet,

In any cold weather,

That maims the car tires

Tainting the fender,

Shattering the bender

In such fashion where,

You splinter what soul I hold,

Here in the wintry bellowing air

I have not much to say,

For you have forgotten me,

With lips like a barrel of a gun,

Ready to fire for the Doctor’s Son.

I wonder what he sees in you,

Is it your eyes?

Do they know that tulips inspire you?

That you have 4 cartilages protruding

Whilst you beam your head high,

Far up, hoisted in the labyrinth of troubled times

He wouldn’t know,

Because in resignation

He dismisses you as a lovely face,

Just like any other man,

Fancying beautiful women,

And not handsome souls

Where have you gone, reason?

You seem to fumble toward frivolousness,

Languor in the tips of a dullard with benumbed senses.

One day, you will remember me

In twenty fathoms across planes,

Onto the rooftops atop my bed

On a hill side and a stream,

And I would taste the champagne

Exposed to a facile, dead, surreptitious beam

Of moonlight waxing across

Pores, and downy hair

Where I feel my death,

Knocking at my door,

And I hear your vows,

Resonating across the church doors

With the hands of the doctor’s son

Anybody’s son,

Who wanted, and triumphed

In winning a heart,

That I have won, long enough

That I had lost in the drought of my veins.

The pain is beyond virile, as it stalls

Inside my physiologies, like bells

For whom shall it toll?

Do you know?

Do I know?

I know nothing,

But as I pierce the veil,

Yet only in my mind,

I had come to this conclusion

That to have wanted you, is a futile intrusion

Where my mind, spoke faster

Than any other mouth,

My actions proved better,

Than any other hand,

And my heart,

Enamored far more too real,

Than the doctor’s son,

Any other’s son.

I am on my way to believing,

That above everyone else,

I am the auspicious one.