Dad came through the door, throwing his keys on the floor—a cold tall-neck Blue Ribbon in hand.
Dad's tall, slender frame and rough voice mask his insecurities.
His sapphire eyes cut my skin with disappointment.
His degree in political science has given him a sweet life,
just sorry he never met me or gave any cash to Mom.
Mom throws a football. I catch it.
Mom taught me to ride a bike. I wrecked.
Mom met an unfamiliar man, so mom sent me to a foster home.
I learned to work hard and to stick up for myself through the dream of Dad being proud of me.
On Monday, he woke up and drank until Mom left him. (Mom said.)
Mom woke up Tuesday and drinks until she can't. Mom taught me to never be a numb, functioning alcoholic.
Mom didn't teach me to stick up for myself or to work hard.
Foster families, yes families, taught me I wasn't welcome.
So, Mom taught me how to stick up for myself, just not the way she thought, or even wanted.
A father's day for who? I'd never met the son-of-a-bitch, but hey, happy Father's Day, Mom.
(© 2020 Andrew Cyr)
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The Lonely Position of Neutral
PoetryBen's throat cancer has returned. Living a lonely life, he found a woman he loves but finds out she's been unfaithful. Ben starts to think the lonely position of neutral isn't that bad. He writes poems and dialogue narratives. Will Ben survive cance...
