for my father

There is some beauty in sorrow
and the sorrowing,
perhaps not beauty
perhaps dignity
would be a better word
which communicates
life
beyond just what the body dictates
                      food
                      clothing
                      shelter.
It is nothing that lasts.
It quickly turns into gloom, hate, resentment,
a burdening apathy
sometimes severity towards others;
but like a scarlet bird
from the tropics
suddenly seen flying in a New York city park,
so unexpected,
so unexplainable,
there,
different from its surroundings.

Caliente,
the poor man’s race track,
in Tijuana, Mexico,
where I met my real father,
an old retired sailor
after 14 years of separation
and learned that the real pleasures of gambling
are knowing how
to lose.

Old man,
I place a bet for you
now that you’re dead
and I am still living.
It is on a horse called “The Man I love.”
Gamblers are sentimental
so you will forgive me
living now
and giving away my love.
Win or lose
you played the races every day.
A certain spirit
I hope
you’ve passed on to me.