to the illegitimate child,
whose streets are dimly lit
who pores thru dusty photo albums
for the eyes that look like his,
who searches markets and
city parks for his family name,
who wanders thru the naked tenements
whence your grandpa came,
who holds séance with the black-ink
ghosts bound with flimsy twine,
who sits atop the highest branch
of any tree that he can climb,
to watch them all go to their graves
with the secrets that they keep
as the highways whisper lullabies
in your brave ears while you sleep
and as you carry on your lonely
quest thru every face of everyone
you have not lost your father, rather,
your father has lost his son
nobility is rarely ever
present in such a sacrifice
a man’s rash decisions are
often made in desperate drunken cowardice
still, your left thumb and the bus fares
carry you further and further away
from that great big bright green
front garden in which you played
but there is a mother that misses you
on the end of that hotel dial-tone.
you still have her arms to hold you;
you still have a home.
Rev. Dr. A. Jacob Hassler
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-illegitimate-child/
