My Father

July 17, 2010

My father was the napkin you find wadded in your pocket the next morning, no name on it, the ink smeared, the penultimate digit illegible, something on the corner that might either be lipstick or blood.

My father was the smell of old man and America in summer—new-mown grass and well-oiled leather, the sweet scent of decay.

My father was anisette on the breath of a women picked up in a rainstorm.

My father was the literal transcription that does not do credit to the source material.

My father was the big headphones class, where they teach the kids you never see in other classes how to operate cash registers.

My father was the monster truck that makes you think that guy must have a tiny pecker.

My father was a tickle fight.

My father was torn between the poetry of his heart and the mother of his children.

My father was kill the old guy.

My father was incapable of not making it worse.

My father was the brief surge of impossible hope just before you reveal the last square on the scratch-off ticket.

My father was probably not interested in being spoken of in the past tense.


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