De Gustibus

My poems are my fatherless children
vague, unattended, not intended.
They are out there staring
waiting in rooms of houses
now belonging to someone else.
Quickly, furtively I view them
and I blush as I‘s appear
in the ink of their own eyes
voices and open-O mouths.

One near to me and brave
denies a poem is born from pain
declares it borne by art
a child on strong shoulders.

But I have no art, no child
just this pen
bitten at the end and
a need to devour whatever
will have me.

I am the deadbeat father.