We're Who We Are

We're Who We Are

--for Jocky

Mid-afternoon,
the back room full of
pictures on the walls,
photographs, a postcard
from MacDougal Street, New York,
books I've read
on shelves, waiting to be
read again, I guess, or just
pretty words and colors on their spines,
a chair, an old purportedly
Cherokee rug on the floor, that's been
unraveling for a while, a wicker
basket, and in the tiny closet,
photo albums and a chest
for tools, nails, duct tape,
WD-40, whatever organic
acronym that's supposed to be,
a stab from Organic Chemistry days,
when I thought of becoming
a doctor, being a doctor's son,
and, instead, became
some other thing I almost
don't remember
how it felt.
What difference does it make?
You ride a career until
it's over. You've gotten older.
It was a way to pass
the days while you were
struggling with the world
to learn about yourself.
Or that's what
I would tell my brother-in-law,
who turned out to be
a farmer--having pictured himself
a foreign diplomat.
What difference does it make? After all
he might've been,
he'd still be
who he is.
And so am I.


Joseph Somoza