His father was a drinker,
his father was a drinker.
And for him,
love was a folding chair.
Life was difficult.
and time was purchased in packages.
Bruises would wax and wane,
though his skin stayed clear,
His wrists were like orchids,
you could peer through it,
thin, fragile, and resilient,
but see the carbon, not the blood.
His father worked at Lobel’s;
his father worked at East National.
In those days, gin was cheap,
but tonic was steep.
(Circa 1894)
(Circa 1918)