Daddy Whorebucks

I have never
met my father
in adult conversation-

either he was
more condescending
than eighth grade drama

or I was
too precocious to
sink to the emotional
quotients his

mother taught him.

But when I look back upon
a legacy of two
families, five pregnancies and
a career that
spanned the globe,

I’m long
over your disproportionate absences while you
remained an abscess
on my list of
memorized
phone numbers, taking space at
tables where cutlery was set.

Occasional cheque in the
mail became
the authority
figure so that I could
become his
debt.

I should hardly hope to
re-invent your name,
but shake dust from
its cover every so
often

if only
to illustrate how
many decades may
pass

before I let
it completely
collapse into

a grave of of
irrelevance.

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3 thoughts on “Daddy Whorebucks

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