For Robin Williams
It’s not because he looks so much like my dad,
the same nose, the same mouth.
It’s not because when I was a child,
chicken pox scars new and burning on my brow,
his voice carried me like my ugliness
could only make me more precious, worth a wish,
two, or three. It’s not because the friendly boy
named Bear in my Philosophy class
jumped off the top of a parking deck, or because I stood drunk
on the kitchen table, in my bathrobe, and yawped
a terrible yawp, or because poetry is always a society
where the dead trade hands to touch with.
It’s not because he gave me light when he had none.
It’s not because I never expect sadness.
It’s not because he looks so much like my dad.
Comments are closed.