The Father, The Son

my son will never amount
to anything

forty and bald
he spends most nights
locked in his room, emerging
like gregor samsa
(only at feeding time)

and i know what you're
thinking: what does a
dirty old man know
about kafka?

well i'll tell you:
he was miserable
too

peter's mother gave him
to me that summer before
the year of continuity

when everything changed


she was a pretty
thing, smart as a whip,
distributing pamphlets
like some girls collect
diamonds

when i left her, swollen
belly and all, she called
me a coward

said that those papers
were like firewood and
should've been burnt


he was crawling
the first time
i saw him

it made me sick,
watching him,
having him see
me

crawling too

and there,
with blood on
my hands he
sat on my lap,
fussy as all
get out


she never forgave me
for leaving

some nights
i'd wake the whole house
with my screaming

i could feel her lying
tense next to me, still as a
body

i'd scream louder, she
told me, until she
touched my hands and

"shhhh," she'd say, "shhhh"

and in the morning
jonah would
come in, jumping,

as though there was never
a battle

to begin


you can take a life
but you cannot
unlive it

union fees, mowed lawns
groceries and whistles and
dusty books you'll never
read

maps you've marked with
all the places you'd like to go

you will grow old,
i promise you
and you will hate
yourself for it

i became old in the dead
of sleep, waking to find
my son creeping over my legs,
no more promises,
stealing my pabst blue
from the buzzing fridge

"stupid old drunk," i hear
him say

swallowing the ribbon

but i am not drunk, peter,
not now

i am watching you

i am watching what
you have become