Father Hunting #6

 

What might I have been

to have recognized my Captain, my Conductor!

 

to have passed over and settled

tenderly on the familiar

my father could have been a war hero,

one of the glorious dead chiseled in stone!

had I ended the hunt when the train left,

I might never have been that close – to nothing.

 

like a small and fragile gull

perched on a stone shoulder

nibbling found scraps of myself

I would dream, and I would forget

 

the voices of regret would drown

in the squabble of fat white gulls

feeding on the carrion of what might have been.

 

old rags and brittle bone

had been where I had been

and covered his tracks well.

 

my father let his bones die!

 

he let his legs ground to sand!

 

I had been denied

the final moments of the hunt.

 

I wantedre-runs of Bogart!

I wanted a firm hand! a clean kill!

Father’s head on a serving tray

and a goat for my guilt.

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