The Artist's Daughter

There were fathers and daughters
Today in the park-
it resembled thoughts
of you and I

Oh, renaissance man
musician, artist, social worker
multi-faceted redheaded crazyman

Break my heart in two
Into hundreds of pieces
man of this time, past, and next

My heart is screaming, grasping
for some semblance
and yet I am barren
unable to conceive these words

Groping in the dark, waiting,
an abscure paiting of an artist
painted as a child
among the trinkets,
you'd once bought me

Sometimes, you know I wonder
striving for glory
If I be a journalist, poet, or author
Will I be nailing your leftovers?

Witty man, lover of women,
Here I am left afraid of love and of witt
And yet you do not know it.

Does it bother you?
These toxic fumes of words and misfortune
you leave me to resume

Bits of me, pieces of mine own flesh
are deformed, deteriorated
From this which you have left

When ever does a child become a mother?
A friend a father?

We are best friends, you and I
Distant memories between

that moment you taught me to fish
when I was sixteen,
caught a boot in the habor,
on the pier and you smiled
Your laughter in the memory
it's still in my file

All I remember is that cigarette smoke
Hazy, toxic and suffocating
it was between us before the miles,
before I had made up my mind
and packed my bags for 3,500 miles
between us
You cried at the airport-
and I tried not to notice