Look, here I am, and don't know much

Beyond how I was a secret once.

My old man could light a smoke

the way that you or I would scratch our nose.

His heavy hands would flick the edge

and flare the end without a thought.

I wish that I could have that kind of easy grace,

Or think that I could hit the notes he did

The same ill-favored tunes. He'd been dry a while when

first we met, though God help the one

who got between the man and all those pills he took.

But here I am, half beat by dogs, a hole pressed in my wall.

You want depressed? I can smile that empty way that makes you think

The knife goes only used for food. My secret's safe for now,

But here I am uncrushed by life and live

The bare sole fact of who I am.