Mom, I never trusted you.
Seems like I had good reason.
Seems like something
was telling me you were lying
about something big.
The Monte Carlo? I recall
the black car and the white roof.
I don’t recall the face of the man
who owned it. You say, now,
he was my vanished father,
and not Keith, that rubber-faced twerp,
drunken little man I’ve called my father
since spit was wet. You ended up
with him versus what I recall
of the loud and flashy and wire wheeled
Chevrolet and its plaid coated driver.
What was his name, I asked you. All you did
was cry and ask how this could matter
when life has been so good and plain
and quiet. With him, you sobbed, it would have been
all noise all the time, Fourth of July
every night. Well, maybe I would have liked that,
I shouted. Maybe a few explosions
might have helped around here. Maybe not,
you said. Maybe not for you, I said — and stopped to think.