Two police officers found you on a bench in Golden

Gate Park.

You'd been off and on homeless for the last twenty years.

You were bipolar, an addict, an alcoholic.

Once you got a bit part in a movie.

My brother and I froze the frame over and over.

"Is that him?" "Yeah, that guy."

You were a musician--you sang and played guitar.

A local band sometimes let you crash in their recording

studio.

You called, but only when manic.

You told my dad that we were the Russian royal family--

the Romanovs in hiding.

You said if I came to visit we'd hang out with Lawrence

Ferlinghetti.

"Think about it, man," you said. I did.

You traveled east once for Thanksgiving.

You made turkey sandwiches in the middle of the night

and slept all day.

My brother and I spied on you from the staircase landing.

You got straight for three years and married a civil rights

lawyer.

You had two sons and you got a bread route.

Later, when she divorced you, you lived out of the bread

truck.

You left your boys behind.

You had to.

You joined the Marines.

You ran away to live in a trailer with some swingers

outside of Vegas.

You came back determined, different.

You got beat up a lot.

You started it.

You broke all of your toys.

You were born in Arizona.

You weighed ten pounds.

You were the second son, seven years younger than the

beloved first son.

You began as the Milky Way.

Vapor.

A fog in the German countryside.

Water, at the bottom of a glass.

A dent in the mattress

Crevice and crawlspace.

Mite.

Dust.

Particle.

I learned that specificity is part of the key to good writing, which is why I chose this poem. Specificity, no matter if it reminds us of someone we actually know -- though this poem does remind me of some of my family members -- is what garners our belief and sympathy. The portrait painted here of this man is vivid and complete, giving us a strong impression of his life and experiences. The decision to begin with the ending deepens our emotional response -- we are more attached the more humanizing details we read, but we know from the beginning how the story ends.