Dr. Livingston, I Presume
“Do you know how they found Dr. Livingston in the jungle?”
My father’s eyes, blue as truth,
dance with the story he’s about to tell.
We know.
We’ve heard it before.
Still, we wait, my brother and I,
perfect straight men.
Straight children?
“They followed a trail of discarded typewriters!”
Pause.
Dad’s narrow face widens into a grin.
“And do you know what was worn out on each one?”
It is a rhetorical question.
We wait politely for the answer.
“The letter I!”
And then one day I entered the jungle of the world,
typewriter beneath my arm,
leaving my father behind.
Certain I have left
my father
behind.
And yet how carefully
I have avoided
for so long
the letter
I.
