This light used to stand on his desk.

I can still smell the vanilla bean candle
And it's fraternal twin
Fresh linen
On his rusty filing cabinet
With a peeling red "Employee terminated"
Sticker
On it's belly.

He had a plastic mat
On the floor
So his rolling chair
Could go from one desk to another,
It was clear plastic
Tinged yellow
From age.
I liked to walk on it with bare feet,
And feel the contrast of the cool
Against the ragged carpet.

His files were always a mess,
Even when I had sorted them out
The day before.
I'm told things were better
Before he started working from home,
but I can't judge
I don't remember.

Words still ring in my head
Caught somewhere in his handle bar
Moustache,
And the landline
With his uniform way
of answering the phone.
And his uniform way
Of screaming.

As I write
By the light
Of his gold painted desk lamp,
Which always gets too hot
If you leave it on long enough,
I can't help but remember.
He never really left this house.
His boxes of memory inducing belongings
Are still at the top of the stairs,
And the seventies linoleum
Is still under my feet
With the shaggy gold carpet.

Divorce
Didn't mean
My father disappeared,
It meant his images,
And his voice
Would be wandering through
Our household appliances
Waiting for us to turn the corner
And see,
And have to start forgetting
All
Over
Again.

His Face is woven into
My DNA,
And I'm woven into
A string of lost jobs,
And a wife he didn't love.
And I don't like him
Existing in my new life,
But he dances his way
Through each line I write,
Like a last *******
To the daughter who wouldn't listen.

I wonder if you ever forget
The blood that didn't want you.
Because I haven't forgotten yet

Even if I've mentally buried you,
And left your carcass to rot
In the past years,
You still come back
In late night lights.