My daughter looks happier
than her baby daddy.
At least in this picture
in my hand, the same hand
that used to hold up
5 fingers to her five fingers
and
waited a decade
till she could count them.
No surprise she hooked up with him.
But astonishing how these puerile
minds pilot such beautiful faces
(like a plow pulling Arabian horses).
Her beauty still stuns me: The face
of an ageless innocent
(despite the later mayhem).
Funny how my whole world can
be captured by a single photo,
a thought that sets me back in motion,
clearing the shelves, ready
to pack up all these pictures.
I rarely even notice the faces anymore,
Only see the clutter, the absence
of symmetry in the frames,
all of which evokes
the constant need for tolerance
and proves how many ways things go wrong,
how truth can be obscured but not changed--
It bashes me in my own home--persistent
and powerful--but I’m impressed
that such an imperfect life as mine
remains so eminently liveable.
