My Inheritance

In his darkest days, when he was drunk,
My dad lived in his truck. He parked it
In the woods somewhere, and shivered,
I imagine, in the bitter Rocky Mountain
Cold. He'd had enough of human beings,
Saw no need to try to stand to face the
Ones who sneered at him. At night,
When most were in their beds, he'd
Lurch down rutted roads and into
Town for cigarettes and food, and vodka.
That is what he drank. And, in the daytime,
I suppose, he raised his glass to his surroundings:
Rushing streams and silent falling snow.

My days are growing dark. I weary of the
Ones around me, too, the moaners, those
Who yell, the selfish and the self-absorbed.
I treasure hours by myself. Too much the
Fragile city boy, I do not dream of living in
A truck up in the woods, and I can't guzzle
Vodka. Nonetheless, some afternoons, I
Pour a whiskey and I raise my glass to Dad,
And to his rushing streams and silent falling
Snow.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 26 times
Written on 2010-02-05 at 11:33

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text