A POET-FATHER CONVERSATION
I’ve always been much too delicate,
reliant on words and not muscle.
I really think I’d fall apart
if my self-expression didn’t hold me together
like some rusty but still tough wire.
It’s not that I’m any more truthful
than a guy who flashes his pecs.
But I get what I can down on paper.
And, if that makes me a ghost in your eyes,
then I’ll continue to haunt in the background.
At least, I won’t have to duck your angry roundhouse.
Maybe someday, when you start to lose
more fights than you win,
you might pick yourself out of the gutter,
cast your bloodshot eyes over
what I’ve written about you.
Until then, you’ll crack skulls
and I’ll create.
With any luck, you won’t crack mine.
With any skill, you’ll be my creation.