I am told that I should write
about my origins, that is the stuff
that long poems are made of, or
rather the soil from which they bloom.
I have written about my birth mother
and visited her grave in West Virginia
seen those of my grandparents, met
a cousin, I’ve written all of that.
So its time to write about
my birth father, about the places
he was as a child, a young man,
where he is buried, dead long before
I discovered his existence, our link,
but I know nothing of Burlington,
or Camden and my passing knowledge
of New Jersey is limited
to Newark and its airport.
That is hardly the stuff of great poetry
or even mediocre memoir, so he
will be nothing more than a picture
of a gravestone in a national cemetery.