when
his
eldest
child arose
before the room full
of mourners she invited all,
who cared, share feelings for the old artist and wordsmith—
fellow art scene denizens proclaimed his pomp and place flashing sonnets, songs, and etchings
of a vain father who never told his children he loved them as he left their mothers and even after he got sober—then his brood rose
even those who had planned to hold silence over fruit, snickerdoodles, and baclava—
their sullen stories swirled of long fermenting rage and
years hoping for crumbs of his care
while his cold eyes warmed
for his art
never
for
them