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 writing again.
Dad, even our ways of holding pen are alike.