I made him up when I was very small.
Despite my despot rule, despite the tears,
He never asked for anything at all,
But like a mother, he endured the years.
There’s nothing I could give a man would want,
A real man, yes, not one who drinks my mind.
I used to write my stuff in different font,
Before I felt myself falling behind.
Was he a man? These days I dive too deep
Between the baking ashes of the past.
They tiptoe gentle murmurs in my sleep:
“A man’s a thing that neither sticks nor lasts.”
I named him for my father, lucky me.
I named a dream, I forced that dream to be.
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