3 georges

i wrote tonight and it was angry, scratchy writing, which feels like the antithesis of poetry. it was a poem (a plea?) (an ode?) to my uncle who stole a moment (and a ring) from my dad (and my son) that will never be.
and that is what stops me, the finality of it. that even if we get the ring back, my dad will never have the moment-to hand george the wedding ring that belonged to his father. 
"the 3 georges" as we called them. the ring, from one george to the next, to the next. full circle. 
yes, a cliche but the truth.  
as i wrote, i became angry and sad and thirsty (and thirsty was the only thing i could do anything about.)
i realize that leaving a space between lines of thought does not a poem make . . . so maybe the poem is in the faces of the 3 georges. the ring may be gone, but the connection is not.