Where is my boy? Where can he be?
As I sit writing poetry
and watching fathers drinking tea
with families for company,
I close my eyes but only see
the emptiness upon my knee
where my beautiful boy should be.
Where is my girl? How does she do?
I fear the things I wish I knew
about the faultless way she grew,
resigned to post a thought or two
in verses impromptu:
an imaginary rendezvous,
not the endlessness of every queue.
Where is my continuity?
Where is the strength to continue?
