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[bloggle]

this is my father
how the love of father's gets buried.
the one my father knows,
is not here.
he cleans, he cooks, he takes care.
one afternoon i found him,
under the bridge
a pistol in his hand.
he said "i watched her cooking from my chair
a few other things too
a dripping faucet,
out the window a sixty-foot willow
the belt didn't belong
while she cursed me and slapped away my hands,
a sparrow had gotten in
the bullets, the sneaky speed!"
he explained
a few minutes and tragedy
happening at once.
"it's not like it's the end of the world"
i said
a few minutes and
when i got it in my hand, oh how it burst
a little smirk
the cop said "drunk" and called an ambulance.