Our Fathers

We are not our fathers

with their apple throats

and burlap skin.

We are not our fathers

with their thick tongues

and monstrous hands.

We are not the young

men they were,

the sons of Vietanm

and segregation.

We are not their

moon-eyed faces,

looking up as Americans

filled the sky.

We are not the social

conservatives and union

sympathizers, the

cigarette-lipped children

of immigrants.

We are not reckless

and dying.

Unavailable.

We are not our fathers,

but we are their shadows,

and we stretch

tall from their

steel-toed boots.