Most of what she says
Has come from him
In one way or another.
For they speak deeply,
In an careless iteration
During gray hours of morning.

Her father is somewhere between
Modest and radical,
Philosophically sarcastic,
As years of misanthropy made
An interesting man.
Intelligent, questioning,
If arrogant by some degree.

So, she’d rise early,
When she didn’t have to,
Ignoring the taste and smell
Of her own breath
So she may banter and argue
The finer details of
Art, science and politics.
They’re almost the same-
Illustrators, atheists and idealists.

She speaks freely to him,
Not more or less than her mother
But somehow different.
Thoughtful, ideas of
Greatness and reform-
Still thoughtless in it’s own right.
It’s only talk, after all.