On my birthday last year, you gave me poetry –
Poetry! To one so prosaic as a dad
Who naps in Shakespeare and
Truncates your self-portraits.
And there it languished at the ready, along with
Kierkegaard and Flannery
And everything else I intended to
Read or re-read,
Perched by my pillow,
Within eyeshot, your gift – concealing
As it did a message, a clue, a line of epiphany,
Which I overlooked the times I
Blew off the dust and
Flipped through the pages, your
Literary largesse.
Now, a full calendar gone by,
I’m desperate for distraction – sleep
Bats me down, repose denied – and
The stack beckons, poetry on top.
Coaxed by your green-inked inscription, I
Enter and behold a green-inked
Line beneath title. So subtle, so
Like me to miss it before: The
Ink was the gift! Hence,
Before I drift off, here
I thank you.
______________________________________
