My daddy spoke loudly, and acted deranged, I thought he'd done rehab and promised to change. It started with brewsky and ended with shot, so often repeated I quickly forgot, that his bum addiction – not I – was to blame, instead I hung low my head, weeping with shame. I learned to be agile, to counter and spar, although just the slightest nudge pushed him too far, if I stood up quickly or spoke out of turn, I'd soon bear the brunt of a cruel savage burn. He could not forgive his own failure at sea, self-torment and -loathing did fill him with glee, he'd bury his feelings and push them deep down, then starting at sunup his sorrows he'd drown. The drinking did little, but hurt harm and foul, drive into his features a hard lasting scowl, although toward the end he made more laughs and hugs, buoyed by a girlfriend and anti-sad drugs. I sorely do miss him, the old aged P, who'd give his right arm just to spend time with me, who loved a young grandson, that bounced on his knee, whose mouth ever uttered a deep I Love Thee. All hail the ancestors, the ones who are gone, whose exploits we recount in story and song, who harry, cajole, serenade, and inspire, who stoke up and tender a vast holy fire. Goodbye now, dear father, whose ashes now rest, I'll double me efforts and give it my best. Aho.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
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