Mama told me that I’m just like pops with
the way I let things rock and
let my mouth close when my head get hot.
I was two when he burnt the road up,
and at 13, I looked in the mirror
and I popped questions
about the 1300 miles he scorched.
His face looks just like mine.
I ain’t seen a man yet.
When I see him,
and he looks at me,
I bet he thinks I’m a man now,
I pay my bills like him,
I pay my taxes like him,
I pay attention,
“I’m a man, look at me when I’m talking to you!”
But I can’t help and look the other way,
and he can’t hear the things I want to say,
because my lips stay closed like his.
My blood boils,
and the mirror lies to me;
I’m just like pops.
Who’s this man supposed to be?
The man I see
can answer his own questions
and doesn’t have to ask
or the road
or the rising smoke.
But Mama told me that I’m just like pops.
July 9, 2016