The poem may have been about you,
though it didn’t mention you by name.
So the you could actually be any you.
And the me. I admit the me is me
or was me when I wrote the poem,
not necessarily the me I am today.
It’s just a poem about a poet’s son.
I have poems of a poet’s daughter,
wife, father, mother, sister, brother.
Poems of my grand boys, grand girls,
with hopes that someday I’ll write
poems of my great grandchildren, too.
With his
bull terrier
temperament
he stood like Monet
by the San Fernando Valley pool
of rippling blue relatives
some in mid summersault
while other under
water kids in loud swim suits
spouted splash from their lips
like plaster cupids
and him snapping, “Hold still!”
trying to get the shot
for all time
and here I am
now a thirty
year old later
thumbing through
the
negatives
of us kids
under developed
we look like
fish apples
bobbing above water
visual inside out
legacies
we were
his water lilies
it was so like him
to leave behind these
Kodak canvases
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