Sitting with my son
on the empty floor,
in the middle of a bare, white painted apartment
starting up his life,
chatting about furniture and curtains and cable tv,
sharing with him wisdom I don’t have
giving him courage he doesn’t need
to cover the naked insolence
of his younghood emptiness
Where’s my father?
Where’s my mother?
I was just chatting with them
about furniture and curtains and cable tv
in my bare, white painted apartment
where I started my life
I remember they went out
to take a stroll
into the eternity around the corner,
as I myself am going to walk out
through that white painted door
of my son’s empty apartment,
and not yet furnished life,
to take a stroll
into the windy corridors of his memory
