to the illegitimate child, br whose streets are dimly lit br who pores thru dusty photo albums br for the eyes that look like his, br br who searches markets and br city parks for his family name, br who wanders thru the naked tenements br whence your grandpa came, br br who holds séance with the black-ink br ghosts bound with flimsy twine, br who sits atop the highest branch br of any tree that he can climb, br br to watch them all go to their graves br with the secrets that they keep br as the highways whisper lullabies br in your brave ears while you sleep br br and as you carry on your lonely br quest thru every face of everyone br you have not lost your father, rather, br your father has lost his son br br nobility is rarely ever br present in such a sacrifice br a man’s rash decisions are br often made in desperate drunken cowardice br br still, your left thumb and the bus fares br carry you further and further away br from that great big bright green br front garden in which you played br br but there is a mother that misses you br on the end of that hotel dial-tone. br you still have her arms to hold you; br you still have a home.br br Rev. Dr. A.