Father



They called him my father,
But he wasn’t really,
Not a true father,
As fathers go,
Just a man,
I never really got to know,
Until a few years before he died,
Small wonder I never cried,
When they told me,
My heart was cold...
I wondered about that,
Why I didn’t feel a thing,
Wondered what it could mean,
Was I that bad?
That I didn’t get sad?

This man I never knew died,
I knew his birthday,
I knew he liked chocolate ice milk,
Not ice-cream,
Too rich for his old blood,
And Dr. Pepper,
This being the sum
Of the memories I have…

Oh,
I remember he slept a lot,
When he was home,
And beat my mother,
Though he never broke a bone…

He always stood apart,
Looking at us like aliens,
As though we spoke another language,
He could never understand…

I remember where I was,
When they told me he had died,
And I waited for some feeling,
To cross my mind,

But there was nothing.
Just a sudden scent of Old Spice,
And whiskey hung in the air,
Then dissipated,
I looked around,
But there was nothing there…

I called my sister,
To tell her the news,
She didn’t say a word,
Then softly whispered into the phone,
“I can’t cry…”

I whispered back,
“Neither can I…”