Prompt: a poem about a small habit you picked up from one of your parents.
[a willful divergence from the instruction – perhaps another trait I inherited]
look at me
and you will see my mother
dirty blonde hair
with eyes not fully blue
nor fully green
nor whatever hazel means
shoulders too wide
for such limited stature
and plastic-framed glasses
that draw away focus
from the small, pointed beak
I often fail to appreciate
talk to me
and you will hear my mother
a vocal and independent opinion
stubbornness to withstand
any affront or correction
shielding a timid humility
filled with raw self-awareness
of my many imperfections
a curiosity unashamed
and desire to learn more
do more
grow
become better
prove that I am more
than I believe that I can be
look at me
and you will see my father
raggedy cuticles
from where they’ve been chewed
or picked at
in my absent-mindedness
or anxious moments
the same outfit I’ve worn
for a decade or longer
still sits in my drawer
no need to replace
but when the day comes
that it must be retired
I’ll seek another of the same
different is rarely better
talk to me
and you will hear my father
analytical, problem-solving
a collector of facts
in pursuit of the solution
questions are fuel
to the high-speed locomotive
where thought-passengers must earn
the right to disembark
a list of projects-in-progress
that rarely make any
despite my honest intention
the “right tool” always visible
in my mind’s eye
but never in the spot
where I thought I put it
though assuredly
it was not thrown away