Father's Day

Somewhere, down in Georgia, near
Atlanta, there are lives, which correspond
With what his peepers see: the faces
In the photographs upon a shelf,
The wife and kids, the former living
Better now, supported by a man,
Who has a better job and hasn't beat
Her. Who knows how the kids must
Be? Have they fished with Father Two?
Have they camped, up in the mountains,
Or are they suburban slugs, who may,
By now, have learned to wall away
His nightly blackout rages? None
Has called. He's not surprised. He
Pours another drink and snorts.
Somebody could have sent a card,
He fights the urge to sweep their
Faces to the floor. He fights the
Rage. He also struggles not to
Cry. The sun's still up. It's early
Evening on a Father's Day.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 27 times
Written on 2013-06-17 at 02:29

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