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erica-lPoems
My father is sitting in the truck, Bright red, a contrast to his sweatpants. They are turquoise. They call attention to us Wherever we go. They are well-worn, falling apart, Their weakness reminds me of him. Cheap, imperfect fabric Covering his legs That I will see less as I get older. I distance myself from him, His wife, my siblings, From the bright blue sweatpants. I want to be far from the poor, Dingy life, And the sweatpants - a size too big. Embarrassed to be seen with him - More when he had those on. They yelled, "White trash. Poverty. West Haven." My father, his sweatpants, His crass demeanor, Alcohol breath, So distant.
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Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 9:17 PM UTC
turquoise: closed communication
My father is sitting in the truck, Bright red, a contrast to his sweatpants. They are turquoise. They call attention to us Wherever we go. They are well-worn, falling apart, Their weakness reminds me of him. Cheap, imperfect fabric Covering his legs That I will see less as I get older. I distance myself from him, His wife, my siblings, From the bright blue sweatpants. I want to be far from the poor, Dingy life, And the sweatpants - a size too big. Embarrassed to be seen with him - More when he had those on. They yelled, "White trash. Poverty. West Haven." My father, his sweatpants, His crass demeanor, Alcohol breath, So distant.
erica-l
Written by
erica-l
31/Non-binary/American
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 9:17 PM UTC
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