My daughter long lost
to deadly domestic warfare
and decades of strife
called me Dad the other day.
And I could live another
hundred years to find out
who she’s going to be.
All the years I lost
to separated fatherhood
her being all alone
my being a lost mongrel
her needing a little answer
to my giant question –
who she’s going to be?
Will she scrape the bottom
of the barrel to find me
covered with mud from
monday to sunday
just some level of geology
in time measured by
who she’s going to be?
I’m sorry my girl
but I’m not sure what for.
I didn’t know what to do
to keep you in my nest
in my safe embrace
in that warm place
you created for me.
I would give up half
of my cobblestoned life
to put my flat feet on
the street where she lives
and tell her don’t worry
it’ll all be okay, hey,
who are you going to be?
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