Legacy
for my sons, Matthew and Richard
What of me will be left to you?
Few artifacts; less money.
Incomplete memories of
a man who never found himself,
who never stopped trying.
The time of my life
lived in a century now passing
into the lies of history.
Nothing comprehensive or certain.
Fragments collected against my ruin.
Random photographs, simple junk,
a few books, some journals,
and thousands of poems
you may never read.
Tales of a shaky Odysseus
sailing toward a home unknown.
My uncertain journey from then to now,
and how I came through it all somehow.
All the true fictions I made
to survive in a faltering world
and create the self I became.
Ephemeral words and images.
Nothing to own, possess, or spend.
Remember my imperfections:
Flawed father, failed husband,
dubious warrior, singer of stories.
All I have to leave behind,
living thoughts of a dead brain,
contained in the vessel of my name,
the same name you now carry:
Your worlds, my worlds, the world,
different worlds, but much the same.
