by Mark Wisniewski
sometimes in the middle of a night I’ll wake
& start wondering where they
came from: the words & conflicts in all
that dirt printed under the odd Polish
boy’s name
this troubles
me into fearing my source
will dry up
leaving me as a kind of Joe
Namath of literature
hobbled
permanently
Broadway grin yellowed
stance irreparably
bent:
done
sometimes I’ll then consider
my parents
the verbal flow my father’s
side lent
the desire for goodness
that came from my mother & I’ll think
that maybe I owe
it all to them & that if the spirits of their
ancestors–wherever they
are–decide to pull some
plug on me
I’ll become forever
a disgrace
certainly a disappointment
to all those
supposed friends
on Facebook
& maybe
worst of all
an enemy
of myself
then I’ll
continue
to lie
still
that much
closer
to daylight