If I cry, you cry, it all sounds strange

I cried looking across the table today
With you
Looking at your computer screen
Active and alert
And not a thought
Of your loss

I cried for other reasons
To be loved,
To be missed,
To be my father’s son
To be the thought of an hour
The punchline of a joke

I suppose it is like Pittsburgh
Or Cardinal Mooney,
Or what ever other school
I attended

But they could care less
My image across the table
Knows why I am here,
Why I have to explain myself
A million times a day,
Why I doze off when I shouldn’t,
Why day seems like night,
Why art is as real as Federico imagines it to be,
Why structure is unimportant
If one has facility.

Why do I love my father, my mother?

Is it because of my birth? I doubt it.

They have done so much since then.

I love the moment, so I write.
I feel empty, so I drink.
I escape the biological, so I think.

What can not be minimized in sequence?

That does not explain the tears of Puget Sound, of Lake Erie, of Tiffin, of Connecticut, Seoul, or the like. That explains nothing.

Tears are what they are. They explain nothing.