Back again you do,
Overzealous and overjoyed
To things not worth
Even an empty glare.
Daddy, crack open
The mortar plaster
From off your statue.
Have you checked the mail?
The money had come in.
Long is the day in which
The plaster doesn't break anymore-
I believe you are used
To it. Sometimes I
Can feel it myself
When you're away overworking
During these seasons
Of bad roads.
Those sort of filths,
Resenting mud alienated,
Untouched by loveless
Spring thaw, to whom you've
Been married to
For thirty years.
A dull thirty years, at that.
Disdain is the feeling, Daddy,
I know. Dirty, dirty disdain.
I could not imagine
Being you. I have never
Done the things that you've done.
Instead I'd sit, like a petulant child
Drawn by the frosted window sill,
For a black sundown-
For seemingly nothing
But your return-
And to tell you
What the winter had given me.
To say I had hoped
To not feel what you are
Is now a contemporary euphemism
For blue violets pollinating
Our lady of sorrow.
Yet I do feel it-
Always. That particular filth,
That resenting mud.
It hardens too fast, I think.
Proud me,
I could finally rid
Some of it.
But winter is almost over,
and spring thaw is watchful.
Unhalt the ice!
She will soon,
Bearing none of her snowdrops,
And bringing back disdain
With the season of bad roads-
And the mud, too.
With it, I wait no longer,
It is always dark here.
Daddy, you can come home now,
Maybe it's no use.
The money had come
In the mail, did you check it?
No, just your epoxy self-
And your negligent head
I try to break through.
You do not listen,
Liquidating a child's mind.
Never, rock and ruin.
Daddy, sit. Sink into nothing
For another day.
Maybe it is no use.
Who brings it?
Her? Me?
Any one of our
Doubtful circumstances?
Father, maybe it is
No use.
You are but a cemented head.
Daddy, maybe it was just you.
