How i miss my father.
I wish he had not been
so tired
when i was
born
Writing deposit slips and checks
i think of him.
He taught me how.
This is the form,
he must have said:
the way it is done.
I learned to see
bits of paper
as a way
to escape
The poet ‘sees’ the ‘bits of paper’ and also learns to see how to conduct her life.
Poem at Thirty-Nine