I can’t shake what my Father forgave me.
We flew private from JFK to Missolonghi.
The longing—along with the length of it—
Made me fear the sea beneath our seats, on our journey
From our ancient acreage, called DownEast.
Silence sweated sighs, as if to compete with the sea—
And her pregnant curls waving in our wind—
To trouble my entourage, and to parody me.
The Poet whose foot crumbled, discouraged
By the damp caress of Liberty, he called—and we
Knew by his quivering hand—eloquent,
Though evident—that this letter to us was his last.
“Do you think there is one person here who
Dares to look into himself? I have not a friend in
The world.” Burgundy ink, curled and rolling,
Called me, urgently, from my world tour to console him.
“From YVR to wherever you are,”
I replied; “We play the Garden Tuesday, and aren’t far.”
Souls out, we marched, from the suite, to our car;
From the venue to the Tarmac, to a falling star.
There’s no book, window, or shelf that contains
Such pain, such fever, as Fame inflicts upon a Name.
“Son, you have flown so high,” fell so softly
His light voice, “remember, Boy, who you are.”