A personal reflection while sitting on my back porch with a glass of bourbon in hand. Cheers to my Dad, from your biggest fan.


The Glass

My daddy worked
on the day he died,
bourbon in hand,
sitting on the sofa
he slumped,
then collapsed
falling forward
onto the carpet
he’d spent his life making.

I imagine my mom
preparing dinner,
my brother’s latest crisis
her true obsession,
as she called out
with nagging voice,
reminding him what
“the doctor said”
about bourbon.

He never caught a break,
not from her
who pushed him away
with her body and
her words, never relenting;
not from the industry
that gave his desk away
before the scar on his chest
had time to heal;
not from my brother
who viewed him
as the loan officer
who never needed repaying.

But still he kept working,
alone with his glass.

And so it was
until the day
he died.



Poetry by Melinda K Zarate The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 23 times
Written on 2026-05-08 at 21:41

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Sameen The PoetBay support member heart!
Haunting and so real. Yes, you’ve written something real.
2026-05-09


Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
I could see the love you had for your father in this pictorial poem, and how you saw him unvalued by some of the people around him. He was obviously lucky to have such a loving fan as you. Blessings, Allen
2026-05-08