No paucity now

I think I have overcome the drought or at least, I have found a few things to say.  This next poem I wrote for the Library of Congress; they solicited for poems about fathers and daughters.  They elected not to publish this one.

At last, Goodnight

I have said goodbyes to people you never knew

soft spoken boys who thumbed though Pynchon, 

friends whose pigtails and braids fell away to layers and bobs and hues,

and teachers who shored me up, wincing at my hackneyed visceral poetry

and lovers whose names I can't even remember

I have read books that you probably read as well

and I have thrown back whiskey and vodka and beer and wine

and more whiskey

knowing you had done so when the mornings came too soon and you raged at 

your life

I have stepped on stones and dirt and stairs and persian rugs where you had tread

I have held the same hands that once touched yours

but there is nothing that we can share

our histories are parallel and exclusive of each other

except for sorrow, perhaps in that