Within Close Range: Rocky

You came to Dad as a hired thug, 

but found a mentor and friend instead. 

And a family who adopted you like so many strays – 

the scarred, the scared, the castaways.

Giving you shelter and a place at our table, 

away from the streets, the violence and struggle.

Into our home and into our hearts,

like each of those strays, you’re family now. 

Showing duty and reverence to Mom and Dad, 

you become a different creature with just us kids; 

when you shadow box and dance in imaginary rings, 

reciting poems of strength, your knock-outs, your wins.

Filling our minds with fact and fiction,

which is which hardly matters when told with conviction.

We hang on every word from your kind, but battered face

and marvel when you flex your “guns” and chew on broken glass.

We gaze at your treasure – a championship belt –

that you like to wear when doing your work.

Yet something tells me that you’d give the belt away 

if you could simply sit quietly and draw all day.

Freeing your imagination and childlike mind;

coloring the brutal truth that’s been your life 

and all that you’ve done for the sake of the dollar, 

food for your dog and bread for the table. 

With a smile ear to ear and a clue in your eyes, 

I sense your words are mostly lies

to camouflage the things you’ve seen, 

the things you’ve done. 

Thrust into this world misaligned and alone.

Third grade over and you were gone. 

Fighting to survive, then fighting on demand. 

Forced to ignore your gentle heart and artist’s hands.

In your white t-shirt and rolled-up jeans 

above ankle-high army boots and a head shaved clean. 

you lean on a rake, on a break from your chores,

spinning glorious tales to our curious, young horde.