To My Father’s Whiskey
What’s more painful:
Holding on or letting go?
I ask my father
While he sips whiskey.
My words are wasted;
The brown liquid says something
Far more interesting.
He has no need for
Unnecessary questions;
The addition of vibrato
To his song of simple notes
Following the tune:
She lies
He drinks
She cries
He drinks more
A rhythmic cutting
Of weeds above their
Roots reverberates
Through the garden.
I tell my father
While he sips whiskey
Nothing is more painful
Than dull music
And half assed yard work.
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