Classic Poem

Thin paint. No passion.
We would agree, I know,
although we met only once--
some things are in the blood.
Mustard, orange, navy blue
around a fake significance.

The loss of Ireland, the 19th century,
what were you to do?

Fuck the beautiful, the gifted
(my mother before she went crazy);
leave the clanging cockroach cold
behind (Bobby);
find the best (Pollock, Kline,
Noguchi, Nakian),
live uptown (Kevin);
die finally.

Well, ashes to ashes then.

But the three of us--your sons,
scattered to separate lives--
one way or another
we carry you on,
this eye,
this fist within.

Sean