You gave me the Y
and the ability to ponder.
Why is it so hazy
in the kitchen?
I recall the feel
of the virgins blood
spilt on the floor,
slipping between my toes
on sunday mornings
because you didn't have
to work those days.
But we never sat at pews,
just at the kitchen table
with bacon and eggs.
Menthol and tunes of green grass
and high tides in the air
and Gordon is sitting
on the counter top
waiting to tip it’s transparent
courage and laughter
into a short glass with Coke.
I never got your hearty mustache
like the october leaves
still gripping boughs.
Or your terrible eyes
plagued with coke bottles
since the days of your diapers
but we had the same silhouette
and I never grew out of that
18 years in and I fought for
freedoms, or my own life.
But we clashed like titans,
bloody noses and split lips.
You didn’t like the idea
of me on your own,
so why not beat eachother
senseless till we each need
a Handle to stand and stumble.
20 years now and you tell me
How the levees of you vision
crumbled to the words that
I’d be dead within the hour.
So I imagine you handled that,
much like you would now
when bills smile from the mailbox
and the day mom decided we didn’t need the 84 Cutless supreme.
“Grab me a short glass!”
I’m still here.
Almost 21 years later
Saturday night.
and we sit on the deck
burning different flavors
because you like mint and
I smoke a natural blend.
I drink 14's while you still
pour Gordon’s with Coke.
And tomorrow morning Mary will be bleeding for breakfast.