You taught me to feel by Demanding a beer where Indians aren't served. Your saved up tears My sole inheritance. Black was your hair, In fact it was red Though I could never Ascertain the real In the passing scenery. Living on interstates Knocking on so many doors We sang to keep you awake, It is there my heart Still finds a moving home. When at last rejected By everyone you knew, still Managing to carve out a life. Who might you have been if Only you had been born lucky? Your confidence was first, In a string of losses, Then me, and another, Your mind gone, all was Reduced to paperwork. Your lessons were hard And when you came to rest Far from over, a key: That could open soup cans Unlock the gates of trust. There are days not yet spent I want to believe in them That I will review, and Understand that circus, then Hopefully I'll do no worse.
©2012 - C Ewen Mac Millan