You came into this world
with a tattered welcome, Son—
with seething happinesses and
coffee blacked and bitter.

You came, and here we lie—
a fractured one amid our twos
and threes and thousands.
A heavy price upon our heads.

To get us to dream? Oh, Son.
To fend off want and whine?
To fish between the storms?
There’s not much hope in bastards.

I, for one, concede defeat
and do with coffee burned—
if luck is drunk, she’ll pour some wine.
But nothing comes for dreams.

I sleep, I fall too fast asleep, and you, Son—
ought to be raking fields and planting;
it’ll be dark soon, you know.
Where is your Father anyway?