dimpled chin

My unshaven face in my father’s face,

so i’m a fake, at least a bit false,

except for the salt

beads of pepper crumbs

flecked on his pepper soup

creamed on a stubborn chin

drinking soup instead of gin

except for that felt, cotton soft touch of his

beard that sits clean on a rough ship

his old man was a sailor, my own chin

has a split, better embraced as a cleavage

barely so but i claim it

girls used to whistle, saying

“grow a beard and hint at a chin split”

i ran a lot, wearying myself to old age and shin splints

to age it, my chinny chin chin

so maybe

I could be my father’s baby


mine is coarse, not quite calm

but i try, i pose, meditate and fold

legs, arms, and fight

for that oxymoronic peace

an ironical ease

its english birthed overseas

and i speak it very well it seems

mouthing words from my chin.

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