Sliding out of a crimson teardrop, he entered.
Trying to breathe, dissenting from pent up phlegm.
He never meant to be here,
placed down into an ample bosom.
Patted on the backside until, at last, gasps were patterns, softened
in the cries of the infirmary. The first face he saw
was a nurse named Marjorie. Proclaimed him tall.
Measured his feet. Then walked out into the waiting hall.
Mother was second. She laid upon her death bed.
Nineteen-forty-seven, clutching her beaded necklace
to open the doors of heaven.
Believing she had met her maker,
he left the room to cry and set the table.
Father was a good man. He taught him how to tie a fish net
and how to drive the rig. Baseball, rye and wrist strength
and firm handshakes and how to roll a cigarette tight.
The son was 13, the daughter 9. The father left at midnight.
His sister was beautiful. Donna, she danced and smiled.
She had a child. She quickly matured and passed her wiles
off as a way to a faster path to wherever she wanted to go.
So she danced off into the sunset in a drug overdose.
The third pew from the front, right side. Gloria always sat,
so one day, he slid a row ahead of her and boldly sang.
His creaking baritone caught her ear.
He’d hoped she’d laugh.
The next week, he joined the same pew to hold her hand.
A gentle touch.
She raised two kids. He paid the bills. She made his lunch.
He grayed and filled. She stayed untouched, never looking less
than the perfect angel, even in the cancer’s grasps.
He sang to her in the hospital. She gasped a laugh.
The overachiever. He taught Tommy how to tie a fish net,
but Tommy quickly turned to bigger prey.
He’d lie and get sent to his room, but didn’t stay.
He’d sneak out the window or back into the basement to sit and play
video games. Ones he designed himself.
And the old man couldn’t figure Tommy out but tried to help.
They sent him off to school. West Coast, with just a tie and belt.
He used to visit in Novembers,
now sends a card on Christmas if he even remembers.
Daddy’s little girl. Jessica sort of reminded him of Donna,
so he protected her at every step and quickly coddled
and looked at every boy with a twitch that followed
quickly behind a firm handshake. It kept Jess embarrassed.
Pleading to be allowed to do the things her older brother did,
to be like the other kids
to be like her mother.
Cancer’s like that, though. A hereditary curse.
Hodgkin’s lymphoma.
A father stepping from the hearse.
And now he sits,
tearing off pieces of bread to feed the ground.
Knowing the pigeons won’t stick around.
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