Inheritance
Dad, it was your diary that stirred your morning one day. You looked over the pages of eighties, verses written in early mornings. Your aabb and abab diluted my arithmetic. The Rape of the Lock was your favorite and there were many more− your poems your recitals our realizations. “Your poems are like water, they flow.” mother said and I forged to swim sentinel like fish protecting your poetic. But I became a page-worm sometimes I entered your room− a childhood larceny to become like you, to rattle on stanzas. Iambs and trochees leaked into my wormy skin with your souvenirs. I too was a poet then. And today you are w...