Poem: Missing

Missing

I walk my four-year-old along the

face of the department store.

She teeters up on spindly legs to

reach for a raincoat with a

Jolly Roger and crossed cutlasses.

Ahrr! Pirate raincoat.

Too late for that one.

Why, Daddy?

It’s summer.  By the time it

rains again, you’ll be a

whole different size.

I’ll be hooj!

What’s a pirate’s favorite letter?

I know! Ahrr!

Nope, I say. The C.

Pirates love the C.

Daddy! You cheated.

But honey. Jokes don’t have rules.

That’s why they’re jokes.

Oh.

She chews on a strand of hair and

studies a pair of galoshes with cat faces.

Daddy? Tell me again.

What, honey?

Why I don’t exist.

On the important questions,

I have learned that eye-level is best.

I kneel and brush the hair from her face.

It’s a lot of different things.

I’ve never made a lot of money.

I have a knack for meeting

women at the wrong time.

Some of the women had

problems I couldn’t solve.

What kind?

Well, one was a drunk.

One had trouble controlling her brain.

Two had sexual hangups.

One was just a mean psychopathic bitch.

It takes a lot for two

people to have children together.

You have to be ready;

things have to work just right.

And now, I’m too old to start.

She chews on a thumb.

Are you sad?

Sometimes. But I have nieces,

nephews, children of friends.

You.

She flails her arms.

But I don’t exist!

I tap a finger on my temple.

Up here you do.

That’s cause you’re a dough-wit.

I laugh.

A poet, yes.

Come on, let’s get a cup of coffee.

Daddy, kids don’t drink coffee!

Mine does.

I take her hand and lead her

upstairs to the Caffe Pergolesi.

She grabs a cluster of

honeysuckle and holds it to her nose.

She looks so much like her mother.

 

From the collection Fields of Satchmo 
Photo by MJV