Poetry

(still work in progress)

You taught me to feel by
Demanding a beer where
Indians aren't served.
Your saved up tears
My sole inheritance.
 
Black was your hair,
In fact it was red
Though I could never
Ascertain the real
In the passing scenery.

Living on interstates
Knocking on so many doors
We sang to keep you awake,
It is there my heart
Still finds a moving home.

When at last rejected
By everyone you knew, still
Managing to carve out a life.
Who might you have been if
Only you had been born lucky?

Your confidence was first,
In a string of losses,
Then me, and another,
Your mind gone, all was
Reduced to paperwork.

Your lessons were hard
And when you came to rest
Far from over, a key:
That could open soup cans
Unlock the gates of trust.

There are days not yet spent
I want to believe in them
That I will review, and
Understand that circus, then
Hopefully I'll do no worse.