In my backyard,
again, I am uncomfortable/ familiar.
He, could be
anyone,
but instead he is
him.
I don’t want to put the dirt pile in the trashcan.
It’s after five. It’s dinner time. It’s hot.
But I should,
Suburbia shit-hole
mentality,
He still doesn’t
get it.
I do.
No matter what form he comes in.
So I say a few polite directed words.
I am still a son.
No matter the father,
but also,
I make a point to leave.
This one is not for me,
to make peace with,
I have already done that.
With mine own.
In his backyard.
No comments:
Post a Comment