I have sought them at the close of day.
In the basement, living room, and the foyer—
They’re gone. So is the house, sold to monks who pray
For suffering’s cessation and stolid abstinence
From attachments. But I loved them, my parents
Who let me abide and gave me a chance
To ride on their spines. So I peel my eyes in the park,
And on the stuffy bus. If I didn’t feel pulled by the dark
Maybe I’d stop looking.
I have beheld other people’s parents, who
Baptize and add to their aging brood—
They offer me key-rings and even a room.
Brought to sobs at the pews of their refrigerator,
Such wonders to gulp—what was holy before?
And why are they kind to their less-than-kin? I’m not sure,
But their meatloaf tastes like heaven and probably isn’t drugged.
Could this be family, too? That damn dark tugs
Hardest when things almost get good.