Where is the Soul

I think if my father looked at Pollock painting
he'd see wall of splattered macaroni.

Those things run through my mind
when I get a phone call from him
and I'm excited about something,

something that furthers my own survival.

It's never a predictable move on my part,
the way I manage to slip through life
But I put my heart and soul into anything
that excites and challenges me.

That should make him proud

it should make him proud that a business believed
in me enough to move me back into a metropolitan city,

it should make him proud that, despite that situation
disintegrating around me, I manage to land another
job quickly in this impossible economic climate.

I look at a Pollock painting and I know, I know that despite
all the madness, and all the anger, there were moments of joy
that found its way onto his canvas.

and he took the hardest road to get to that joy,
but there was no choice.