rat-baiting.
It took place in the desert —
disoriented and with
parched skin,
when I was first called upon:
“Your father is dead.”
How so?
Velvet-clad sheetrock, no echos.
How fucking so!
He’s standing right in front of me.
I could hug him — were we the hugging kind.
“Your father’s dead.”
A warning-cum-blessing
to be slid into a thick envelope
of typewritten poetry
of the mediocre kind.
I lack the vocabulary.
Anger? Desperation? Giggles galore!
“Hey! Dad’s gone. He’s dead!”
They’re all encircling me and crazy smiling.
A bad joke, they must be thinking.
Kid don’t know what he’s on about.
Dead! — he’s got no clue, the kid.
Or does he?
The wheeze in unison:
“You know what? Your dad is, indeed, dead.”
Some are pointing at a mural and
at a set of coffee-cups, hand painted,
antique if not ancient.
And you want to hose down the paint,
kick the table over and send the china flying.
“Not with your daddy dead, you wouldn’t!”
Minor cuts. They don’t bleed much at all.
No bone fractured.
He was a sad boy, tidy and quiet. Not a cutter.
A neighbour wanted to get to know him better,
“Even with him dead — you know. I could…”
I would help if I could, but I’m short on
intelligence and I’m out of my element.
Ask me something and I’ll reward you
with a blank face.
You can say that again.
“No. With my father dead, no.”
Moving on — admire this:
Vacuity. Discoloured absence.
Time unrecorded and irrelevant.
For kicks.
Will you free me of my will?
“Not unless you father is dead.”
— A stickler. If I ever saw one. —
A dozen will do?
Make it a mile, will ya?
You acquiesce.
This may be the time to let things go,
“Like my father was dead.”
