Laying Some Poetry On You : These Days I Would Be My Own Father

When I was a boy on that bike with

no training wheels

it was my dad that held the seat

until I could make it on my own

wobbling first into that old thorn bush

in Larkspur Canyon where the trees

still claim the road

and split the infinites

I had a nosebleed

he had let go too soon.

Dads come and go

and there more faces than

there are spokes on a wheel

there was that time he wore

another face it was in

Riverside Drive I made it all the

way down the bike path

before I knew he had let go

he said if a thing is worth doing

it is worth doing it right.

In a London flat he was the one that

hated to lose at games

and I had to let him

win or he would sulk

he’d get up before dawn

just to drink the cream off the top

of the milk

before I could pour my cereal

but he didn’t punish me for burning

the toast.

he was not the one

who’s name I would

not speak

nor kinship claim

nor admit caused me

one moment of lost sleep

though in nocturnal truths

I paused always in a hallway

just on the other side of the door

afraid to knock

while a party carried on.

These days I would be my own father