You told me before you died that I could find you in a copy of the Republic.
You told me that your ashes are in the ink.
Mixed by some grand hand,
Some alchemist who knows us all by name.
But Dad,
that book is mass produced.
It’s on Amazon.
A hundred million copies.
And a warehouse in Fort Myers
Dad, where do I look for you
Chess.com
Blue light.
Screennames of strangers.
Eyeless player.
Washed in the sea.
Dad, where are you
In dreamless sleep.
In sleepless beat.
In me, the inheritor.
In you, the memory.
Dad,
I go to your Wikipedia page to see your face.
I blink.
Strange to be so estranged.
You sang me to sleep.
Footnote in your biography.
I click it away.
And roll over.