and I call to him, but no answer
the he that is he; I wanted to know
if he is still here, the one left of me 
on the playground and told me
to man-up; a fatherless in a father 
land, speaking into his death chamber
as his body becomes toxic, as he 
injects into me the same pain of being
fatherless, he that is he, puts his arms 
around in aesthetic distance, for me
not to remember that he is a failure

and me not to care, just his manliness
the basso continuo of his voice, the swagger
of his character, and he is rotten in this
family tree, his name and my name
becomes one; the sum of this symbiosis
of our relation; he did not answer, so

I will try again, maybe next year during
another father’s day; maybe his voice
will reappear from the gutter of Newark
maybe the school clothes he bought
will not become hand-me-down, my
brother could cope, but I could not
and they say you have too
and they say you did well

well, that is what they say, I know
it is hard on father’s day with all
the colorful ties and cologne
with the few items in which to choose
from the few positive images too
admire, I know it is hard with the margins
as low, but to court is big, hard being
in arrears, being DNA, a reality TV
being branded and slaughtered
as token as represented as example

I know it is hard coming home 
to reclaim your seed when you left
on the long road up eye ninety five
to another family that will claim him
will take all his possession upon 
his death; I should not care,because
I have the gift; the name and that
can not be taken away.