To My Father

Father, I’m a poet,
building ghosts of emotions,
making love to the
empty world.

Father, we are empty,
we’ve never known love,
so we write and write
for posterity.

How is mother?
Is she sick with some
strange new disease
called HAPPINESS?

Father, I’m lonely.

I want to change things
between us, but it hurts
me to see money in
your eyes.

Father, will they respect me?
As a poet, I mean.


  February 21, 1987
--Alexander Shaumyan