By Sam Whited
To the sultry roll of a mandolin, your child came. Not my child, you understand, but yours: The bastard son of a father who left him in my fumbling hands, Outstretched, and ready to receive the head, just starting to crown.
I thought it would be loud— The wail of an out of tune fiddle; a banjo with a missing string. But the evening is still, The only sound the mandolin. Its decaying tremolo, A silent music, and quiet, as we wait: You working, I with baited breath, and anticipation, Of the cry that’s yet to come.
A response to the National Poetry Month prompt