You were born on a perfect blue day
the sun high in an afternoon sky.
People who’d gathered to witness and welcome
your birth were astounded and happy to see
into your opened eyes: hey, you made it!
Then, you hadn’t any cares, just how many
times you could get your mother to open her
shirt for you to suckle and nurse, cooing
into her eyes as you’d wonder if Life could
get any better.
Your Dad was playing guitar then.
His fingers plucked strings while you
lay cradled in your mother’s lap
back at the farmhouse, soup simmering
on the old stove, your little ears
alerted to the sound of the truck
crunching up the driveway to
signal a threesome again.
(Bread and soup. It’s what made the milk
That made you the man you are today)
When you roam the skies on planes from
Florida to Dayton, looking out the window
or maybe watching movies, do you ever think
to ponder how you got to where you are?
Does it ever occur to you that someone a world
away might think of you as you were when just a
tot scribbling crayons on the walls, or maybe
climbing trees or running from a bully or chasing
a cute girl you really didn’t like?
You could play guitar.
Jerry’s dead now. Couldn’t
you create something older