My father always wanted me to like his songs.
They were shared like goblets of wine:
What's your pleasure, your poison, your shame?
But context is the first thing to go, and eventually
These offspring must stand on their own,
Naked, without meaning ...
There's that familiar start, bass 8ths and a snare,
But sampled as if to make everything the same,
This song for the children, that they want me to like.
It was once what I existed to share,
Now I cordon myself off in layers of padding,
To sing to myself one more time.
