Rigid, with tears trickling down my spinal column
and escaping any other way they could,
crushed up chrysanthemums in my hands,
without moving a muscle, running away
any other way that I could.

One meaningful conversation
with my father in my whole life,
it was after I drank half a bottle of gin
one night in Cincinnati.

He raised me the best he could.

Once, in a dream, I ordered a ****** mary
and now I wonder if that means anything.

If it means anything good.