Life Vol.1, No.8 – Father has gone out

Father has gone out

to preach the gospel.

The playground is empty,

the garage is empty.

Here is a ball, a rock, a knife.

I pound nails into a stump.

Mother calls and I will paint

the bathroom ceiling,

the bed rails,

the porch siding.


Father has gone out,

so righteous the calling.

I walk the gravel road to where

with shotgun in my arms,

I wait just near the township dump.


A lone unwary crow approaches,

here where bounty often eats.

I shoot.

He falls.

I stand there broken,

blood across my chest.

I wander through the empty streets

looking at streetlamps,

looking for cigarettes,

looking for something with a name.


Father plants tomatoes,

and hears it coming cross the desert.

He hears it calling from a distance so he turns

to say hello.

albeit late.


Father has gone out

to the water’s edge.

He has no coat,

He is weary.


Come inside where it is warm, I say,

so we can put this thing to rest,

but father has gone out.

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