I’m reaching out for you from my high chair in the kitchen and
All I want is your warm neck to nestle my head in.
Yesterday you turned 75.
And now, your neck, has gnarled thin and pessimistic,
Chemicals meant to help.
The scheduled weekly injection.
Bruised arm. Radioactive, thinning, wrinkling your loosened skin, scaling you back,
Slowing you to the final stop.
Stopping you in your masculine track.
I see you now,
I see you now,
Slipping away, and yet
You won't say, anything, about it.
I'm reaching out for you, and
All I want is to dance you around in the kitchen on top of my feet.
-Yes, I know we're adults, Papi, but
I still want to give it a shot.
Come on, lets 3- step, Papito - I'll teach you bachata.
Meanwhile, the mirror tells me that this Newyorican shock of hair
Is your dark mane, and that these hands are scarcely mine
My dopey ears, yours,
The grovel of this voice is your rhasp and
The grovel of this voice is your rhasp and
These hang-ups are yours too.
I’m reaching out
But the TV’s turned to westerns, and so,
You can’t see me.
I’m reaching out for you and though you never came to see me in a show,
I’m an actor too, Pa, you know?
That’s my job.
Like James Arness, but with your eyes.
That’s my job.
Like James Arness, but with your eyes.
Like James Garner with momma's thighs.
Like Michael Landon with a clown-nose.
Like brown Marlon Brando. Yes.
Like Michael Landon with a clown-nose.
Like brown Marlon Brando. Yes.
Like Brando, Papi,
Like Brando,
Like Brando,
Who, as we both know,
Is a dusty, rugged, greyscale, bullet-riddled tree out west, who,
like you, never ran from a fight.
like you, never ran from a fight.
And never says a word.
-JV
