Home is a myth that must be
As every generation comes of age,
Placed by their own children on the stage
Precisely when their fantasies have faded.
Yet one is more than amply compensated
For playing well the well-wrought saint or sage,
As love wells up beneath the camouflage,
The truth that makes the myth immaculate.
How beautiful it is to be a father!
Emperor forever of a dream
Repeated through the labyrinths of longing
'Mid memories more true than what has been.
Sing, then, of myths that tie one to another
Deep beneath the bulwarks of belonging,
As tales begun before the words begin,
Yet fabricate the worlds in which words
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon