I went all the way to New York City looking for you.
And found each of your lonely wives packed into motel closets on midwestern highways.
Your bastard children shop for change in Central Park.
How many did you leave for the pigeons to eat?
I’ve spoken to them all. They still call you father
though you have many names.
And speak of you fondly.
They have your wandering eyes.
Together we rooted through back alley trashcans looking for news of you
or your frozen body.
I found a plastic shroud but it was empty, and the bottles too.
In the early morning light the steeples punctured the side of the sky.
We watched from the benches.