December 19, 2011

Collector

My parents' abandoned
album, crowded with
my father in uniform,
now stalks me,
like an old lover
remembering good times,
a blank space
in its dog-eared cemetery
bearing my name.
It wants to open me up,
leaf through my forgotten pages,
recall romantic dates,
then my birth,
secure my place
as the baby grown up,
good for whatever it's worth.
An empty corner filled,
it will wait on the shelf
for the next wayward
son to emerge.