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Glenn W Cooper
all right, dad, you win
incredibly,
it wont be so long
before
I’ll be as old
as
my father was
when
he died. he may have been
an
out of work, near-alcoholic
in
the end,
but
at least he had me and four other kids
to
show for himself.
all
I have is a large book
and
record collection, incurable love
for
a woman who doesn’t
love
me back,
and
these few
small,
inadequate
words.
tentacles reaching out
if
I close my eyes and concentrate
really
hard I can still see my father
crouched
down in the backyard,
his
curly black hair wet with sweat,
knife
and scaler in hand, cleaning
the
catfish he’d bring home from
his
weekend fishing trips to the lake;
can
still see the faces on the stricken
fish,
the bulging eyes, the long, black
whiskers
like tentacles reaching out
through
space and time, to me,
here now, thirty years later.
please
our
budgie is
noisy
and squawky
and
drives us
mad
with
his
infernal
chattering
but
yesterday
he got
too
much
of
the cool breeze
outside
and
today he is
mute
as
a
statue,
sullen
and
unhappy,
feathers
ruffled,
and
all we want
is
for him
to
start
screeching
again.
Copyright © Glenn W Cooper
