MY CHILDREN ARE BEAUTIFUL

MY CHILDREN ARE BEAUTIFUL

My children are beautiful. What have I left them. My rage

lives in the screams of the Yonge Subway cars. 1967.

My dad died on the shores of Normandy. Then stood

up and walked home. Raised a family. Always looking back

over his shoulder.

Every generation regrets that it could not lead their children

to Eden. But there is no Paradise. That distant star

is closer than you can imagine.

My pets are beautiful. I wish I'd taught the dog to play

the guitar. I wished I'd gone out on a bender

with the cat. I wish that the options had

been success or failure.

None of it matters. All of it matters. What we are

looking for is already there.