to the illegitimate child, <br />whose streets are dimly lit <br />who pores thru dusty photo albums <br />for the eyes that look like his, <br /> <br />who searches markets and <br />city parks for his family name, <br />who wanders thru the naked tenements <br />whence your grandpa came, <br /> <br />who holds séance with the black-ink <br />ghosts bound with flimsy twine, <br />who sits atop the highest branch <br />of any tree that he can climb, <br /> <br />to watch them all go to their graves <br />with the secrets that they keep <br />as the highways whisper lullabies <br />in your brave ears while you sleep <br /> <br />and as you carry on your lonely <br />quest thru every face of everyone <br />you have not lost your father, rather, <br />your father has lost his son <br /> <br />nobility is rarely ever <br />present in such a sacrifice <br />a man’s rash decisions are <br />often made in desperate drunken cowardice <br /> <br />still, your left thumb and the bus fares <br />carry you further and further away <br />from that great big bright green <br />front garden in which you played <br /> <br />but there is a mother that misses you <br />on the end of that hotel dial-tone. <br />you still have her arms to hold you; <br />you still have a home.<br /><br />Rev. Dr. A. Jacob Hassler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-illegitimate-child/
