Sunday, December 20, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Winter
He never wanted a son.
He wanted a ‘68 BSA Thunderbolt.
He wanted a lean-to in the North Country, far from everything
He wanted to be separated from what he loved, what he hated.
Farthest from what he remembered.
To burn like birchwood
Leave no remains,
Or be buried and rotting through the seasons that bore him and earthed him
He wanted to die alone.
One morning, after making his son a sandwich and a glass of cold milk,
His boy asked, “What’s it like to be a father?”
He stood up,
Stepped past his son and walked into his bedroom.
He sat down on his bed,
Noticed dust on the shelf,
December’s first snowfall,
And he mumbled something to himself
In most conscious and dour voice.
There was shuffling in the kitchen,
And he heard his door open, creak at the hinges
Then close.
He wanted a ‘68 BSA Thunderbolt.
He wanted a lean-to in the North Country, far from everything
He wanted to be separated from what he loved, what he hated.
Farthest from what he remembered.
To burn like birchwood
Leave no remains,
Or be buried and rotting through the seasons that bore him and earthed him
He wanted to die alone.
One morning, after making his son a sandwich and a glass of cold milk,
His boy asked, “What’s it like to be a father?”
He stood up,
Stepped past his son and walked into his bedroom.
He sat down on his bed,
Noticed dust on the shelf,
December’s first snowfall,
And he mumbled something to himself
In most conscious and dour voice.
There was shuffling in the kitchen,
And he heard his door open, creak at the hinges
Then close.
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