on madison avenue

I’m the only one who knows

but you love to overspend

throwing up on the floor

down to the very last cent.

and at the morgan library

the tour guide points out to us

the most important thing about

the prodigal son is

    he is forgiven.

you look at the boy

in the medieval painting

and everyone else on the tour does, too.

as I turn my head and smile a little

smile as I look        

right at you.

you’re just the right amount of tortured

where i think i can handle it.

where the right amount of nurture

from me could probably fix it.

but the problem is that I am not your father

nor am I your mother, or even your sister.

(you know, whenever i brush my hair, i kind of miss her.)

i think of last July 

when you braided mine

and how doing hers must

 have been how you learned.

so

it is not me by whom you can be forgiven

but I am the one who gave you all I have

and let you spend it all on your mishaps.

and

i sit on a perch, singing my birdsongs

for i’ve come to believe your cage is my home;

and that if i carry on, even all alone,

maybe one day, you’ll sing along.

no

I cannot do it. I have to stop here.

oh

i wish i could do it, for i felt this fear

in the morgan library

on madison avenue

this past January

standing next to you.