Working Out Differences

I seek a way out through my father,
tour ancient grief,
pass eroded bricks of a city.

I seek reprieve. I seek blessing. I seek love.
I seek to capture a dove
with my two bare hands.

I have nailed the door shut like a thief.
The graffiti sting
I have written in ink on my skin.

I sit, Jack Horner, in a corner
and suck my thumb.
The plum that pops out is a bird.

It begins to cry,
a cry for all time that is wordless,
grown out of pain.

The bird is a child seeking justice.
Where a child's roots grow,
a plow sinks its blade in the sod.

And so I go. My father walks the road beside me.
I hear the tick
of his stick on the asphalt road.