My Father’s Son

You are the place I shed my tears,
and spill my blood,
and stub my toes.

You are where I hang my hopes,
unveil my eyes,
and face my fears.

Can I keep you in a pocket
to pull out when I need?

Will you be the fish
to swallow my tashlik?

Will you play the goat for me
to stand up in my stead?

Will you take all these things from me
and love me still,
like Sheldon’s Giving Tree?

I don’t know if I want that,
but if you will,
perhaps I’ll find the need.

Poetic Justice eats my flesh;
indigestion then ensues.
Somehow judicial inquiry
escapes me in the news.

It’s hard to celebrate
a passionless debate
when sinews, muscle, blood and guts
surround where once was me.