Son & Heir

The day I stop wishing for his money—cut myself
From his unwritten will—rub out the rainy-day faces
From the piggybank riches that can only be mine—

Then I’ll be alone with my body—my disinherited
Rust—my still-workable bones—
I’ll take it for walks—it will be my animal—

Short walks—on a low-numbered city street—
Days before Halloween—when the body
Has to be kept on a short leash—it might run off—

And I’ll worry maybe my father—being among the dead—
Will find me—don’t look I’ll say—not even in store windows—
Everything a bare mirror to be stumbled into—

Not even in the jewelry shop at dusk—velvet throats
Stripped of their bling—
What will I have then but passwords—

This one to shut down the account—
This one to read the messages—
This one to not beg favors—of the remembered ones—

Remembered I mean in a codicil—
The dressed-up walking by people—
All the others made by the one who made me—