Anonymous father
let me be your prodigal son
I need a bucket for my inspiration
an alley milk-crate
a paint bucket
a vessel
I need something to hold it
if you are my training wheels, I can’t bicycle without you
you are the unexpected warmth of ten hundred suns
you are my sudden good fortune
.
I can’t look into the infinity of my muse, alone
Help me, Help me
.
That nothing comes from work is the oldest, and last, story that we ever learn
p.s., this poem is about blogging. Ahem.