I could say anything here,
just blurt it out
and my family would
never know
for they would never visit this
place, this
refuge in the box.
I could write a family
reunion poem
with bows and ribbons
and it would be like one of those
gifts nobody wanted so they gave it
to you.
That is what this poem is,
me standing on the stairs
saying
hello everybody
and you are the youngest cousin
thinking
who is that man,
He looks so old,
and is that his poem,
did he bring that worn out poem?
Is that his angst?
You’ve heard it before
on the subway or in the car as
you waited at the light.
Just another bum
with his hand out.
Here I’ll wash the windows
with my
poem.
Have you heard the angels sing?
david michael jackson
