ISSUE: Summer 2001
I’m trying to sleep but can’t
help think
of my father’s dropping
onto those piss-stained sheets,
how he was instantly out
and snoring loud enough
to wake the entire house,
knowing I will toss and turn,
about three
cough up hardened mucus and
stare at the fluorescent hands
of the clock,
squinting my eyes hard to see
how many hours, minutes I have
left before getting up,
something I’d bet my old man
never did,
the lit cigarette I had to take
from between his lips
night after night,
the bottles of Schaefers I’d trip
over on my way in or out,
fearing their rumbling would wake him
although I should have known better
even then, —
his wife gone, his other son grown
into madness,
penniless, pock-marked, with a heart
that would soon crack, —
and still he’d be singing in his sleep
as though he knew I was there,
leaning down to his lips, straining to hear
every word.
