Listen close, dear child tonight
This truth is meant for you
My voice will guide you in love and light
The prayer I cried came true

The world for me was without sound
The struggle tore me apart
All of that was turned around
By the rhythm of your beating heart

I dreamed you’d grow with steady feet,
With kindness in your stride,
That even strangers you would meet
Would feel God’s love inside.

As you learned to walk and talk
I watched with clarity
You light up rooms where hope was blocked,
Showing what love should be.

You help without a second thought,
You fight through every storm
The love you spread cannot be taught
God took His time and shaped your form.

Now you shine just like a star
With every swing of the bat
I bask in awe of who you are
I couldn’t be prouder of that.

Even other parents stop and say,
“There’s something about that boy.”
They see the light you give away,
The source behind your joy.

My son, if this is just the start,
What beauty lies ahead?
Your journey has touched so many hearts,
With every word you’ve said.

So I’ll keep praying as you grow,
it’s the truest place to start.
With every breath, I hope you know
My whole world lives inside your heart.

For years,

Like someone seeking answers,
you leaned in from the downpour
to utter just one question:
Did you drive here? You asked me.

(From the hotel, I assumed.)
No, I walked, I laughed, nervous.
I can’t forget your pained face.

Marvel—
At the Irony Man, Tony Snark.

A body of armor, a mind of wit—
He is sure to deliver a bit and a quip.

With missiles of mockery and lasers of jest,
He tackles the earnest with humor at best.

Sincerity is the enemy, a horrendous beast!
Defeated by sarcasm straight from his fist.

Thank you, Irony Man, for saving the day!
The plague of authenticity is kept away.

the roses have offered a first round
it’s up to their keepers to prune now
if we’re to see another act
as of today, they’re past their prime
faded, wilted
not becoming

I empathize
as I, after hauling away a bucket of once lovely blossoms
prepare to bloom
again

I wouldn’t ask this of you
to cut off the incandescent glow
of your eyes like embryos
burning with uncanny,
yellow light

you feel like a creaky board
on an old dock
I focus on how I don’t fall through
and forget to reach out
to the handy man

the tension of a locked door
against the draw of my wrist
all of the opening I did or didn’t
a practice in greeting true ruin
with a grin

rain, heavy in clouds,
threatens soaked earth—and my soul—
already too drenched

Antifa, dressed in black, stalked along the fringes,
Seeking cracks in the cohesion of peaceful protest.
Police had learned not to strike when
Batons, firehoses and attack dogs
Fueled even greater dissent.

Fifty-five years ago we followed
Those who came before with sit-downs,
Boycotts, mass meetings, taking to the streets.
Pledges of non-violence were made,
Support groups were formed.

Marching with flowers in hand, we endured
Bullets and tear gas, jeers telling us to leave.
Refusing to wage war would not be tolerated.
Not at first. Not until too much blood was
Spilled, too many lives ruined.

Democracy has always been at stake.
Protection for those who belong as much
As those born to privilege and opportunity
Must exist for all of us to flourish.
The promise of America is ours to keep.

I go to bars
to meet old men.

Not really, but that seems to be the joke
since it happens so damn often.

Can always see it coming, too;
the situational loneliness that drives conversation.

He sits at the bar with a cheap beer
like a Cliff waiting on his Norm

because it used to be his norm
going to bars and talking to anybody who would listen.

Everybody’s on their damn phones all the time, 
he gruffly laments. They never say hello.

I didn’t say hello–didn’t actually want to talk–
but I did offer him my menu when I was done with it

and in droughts such as the one he was drifting in,
a little spark like that is enough for conflagrations.

He introduces himself with a handshake
that could pop a tennis ball.

We make comments on the baseball game I came to watch,
swapping stories about our favorite teams.

He’s almost twice my age, curses something fierce,
but believes in treating people right.

You held doors open, said pardon me, said thank you
and you’re welcome. Nobody does that anymore.

Takes pride in his job, too. 
I’m self-employed installing real hardwood floors.

I work every fuckin’ day and I don’t get paid
until the project is done.

There’s something in all that I can’t help but respect,
a deeply rooted kindness underneath a weathered exterior.

He’s a near perfect example of what a conservative man should be,
despite a few viewpoints growing more outdated by the minute.

Some can slide, but I do see need for an occasional comment.
He appreciates disagreement that doesn’t devolve to name-calling.

At least one point, he does take to heart, says
difference isn’t so bad as long as everyone can accept difference.

A strong step for a man walking a world so unfamiliar
from the age he lived his life in. An age before phones.

That’s when his begins to ring. The wife, asking
where the hell’re you at?

The conversation ending, he buys me another round
before squeezing the blood out of my hand once more.

He thanks me for allowing him
to step back into a time he thought long-dead

then leaves me with a full glass
and a mind drunk with wonder.

How much better could the world, the nation, be if we tried
to more fully reconnect with our fellow human beings?

There’s mold in my heart