Sunday, January 26, 2003

hey, dad?

First day
of the return to
block halls and fold up
desktops and the
old man with mustachioed
tweed jacked looks at
my lips and asks,
"Is there a God?"
I wanted to scream,
"YES! There is a god!"
But it's just a pitiful reflection
of your AIDS infected
father ho cuddles in
your old chartreuse blanky
and suck son soapy thumbs
and pinkie tips,
cast on a pool of gasoline
spilled on a car shop
floor. His glasses crack and
drip with sugary
tears down oatmeal cheeks
as the pool spreads out across
the garage and forms random
clouds and continents and
psychedelic blue and pink cartoon cats from
5-year old Saturday mornings,
back when I believed my sister's shoe was a
video game controller and
I could move ninja turtles across the screen.
His gray skin lines expand and dissolve
into poisonous fumes that make
you giggle when the
air gets recycled up
dental office gas masks.
You turned around and
the body you thought
would always be there
faded into the shelves
of spent oil and metal
shavings.

But instead, I spun
my pen,

lowered my eyes to the teacher's chin
and mumbled,

"Why are you asking me?
I don't know."

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