1985

First, there was nothing, then there was me.
Hot summer day. Cosby Show on repeat.
Patriarch in his sweaters.
Dropping bygone knowledge.
His only son wasn’t listening.
“Theo” would’ve fit me, but my mother 
& John Travolta. Welcome Back, Kotter. 
Maybe he’ll be a heartthrob,  she said. 
Locks that go on forever.
My father:  Maybe he’ll be a conqueror,
but he’s got such a pale color.
Namesakes, bad omens,
he scoffed as he held me. Foreigner
on the radio: I want to know what love is.
The world, even then, was burning.
Refugees moved. Trains derailed.
Futures hijacked. We patted ourselves on the back
for the lasting peace we had made.
Grandfathers chomping cigars, shaking hands,
saying  look at what we have made.
Bloodline secure. Which
halfway through existence,
I see the value of more
& more. Studies show
our lifespans are extending
all the time. We’re living
more than we’re dying. I’m sorry,
my father failed to see it. He lived
with abandon. I forgive him,
for when he panicked & ran.
What we do when we see our own mortality.
My mother liked to say, like mothers often say,
you were lucky to be born here.  Now. At this time.
I wonder how that first cigarette, that first Tab
with my aunt tasted when I was milkfed
& she had time for herself again.
Good. The chances were good.
We knew what love is.