How proud I was
the day papa was born?
Everything’s wrong,
upside down.
I have seen
with borrowed eyes
for far too long
to recognize
who my father is
and when
he was or is or
will be.
My clothes of
pleasure and pain
need a softer
hand
that’ll also
pull me out of
this pit of tar
and acknowledge
the return
of a prodigal sun
on the back
of a governmental form
through
crafty doodles
papa made
in my image.
But who knows
and for how long
this day will go on
in the absence
of common sense
to keep papa
from growing old
while I grow old
just as well.
A heathen poet 