A Poem By My Daughter

My Daughter wrote this poem yesterday. After I heard it I told her that I would love to put it on my blog - here it is

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youth sprawls around a café table,
blessing me with his self-entitled, so-called Wisdom—
glowing, god-like, in the sun.

(in his own mind, he thinks that truth comes from books
[and my is he well-read for his age])

but i shake my head and laugh
as he babbles on about totalitarianism and technicalities.

(the flipside of his raison d’etre is the ever-present fear of being found
out—it’s only a matter of time, anyway)

youth gives off an air not unlike a doomed superhero—
fully aware of his tragic flaw,
sick and tired of being his own god
but too afraid to leave the telephone booth without a mask.

youth makes grand gestures with beautifully smooth hands,

(are they manicured?)

but pauses abruptly, his words faltering—

(hands still in the air, mind you)

as Death saunters by in a red dress—
carrying roses

(i didn’t know flowers could be black)

and a crooked crimson smile.

youth is silent, and looks away quickly—
then, with a sudden urgency, he pulls out a pack of Kools,

(maybe he has come to a resolution)

and i quietly wonder if he’ll speak again soon,
while he sucks on a cigarette

(as if he is giving his hatred head).

Jessie Eisenmann

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WH

[posted with ecto]