(True Story, incidentally)
I’m just a baby.
Bitchin’ about a diaper condition
While you feed your addiction
in the kitchen
in the Bowery
in the shared flat
off East 2nd
Dad, you have an affliction
My buddhist junkie supervision
is self-righteous perfection
Even after Mom left you
with your “artistic conviction”
(she said it was drug-fueled constriction
and escaped New York and your jurisdiction)
is measured in miles (we got to Seattle)
We didn’t leave you;
You gave us an eviction.
Drugs and art and galleries and meditation
(wife and child was the last consideration)
And for what?
Did you perfect your expression?
No, your life was all fiction.
Then you died.
We found out about it later
and thought about it for a while.