Father’s Sunsets
A poem to my father
There were days I couldn’t wait for sunset
to come and Father to go to sleep.
Maybe he’d run out of beer or finally
crash on the couch after yelling at the ref.
Eventually though, turning to us,
That anger was a gluttonous bastard.
I’d have to tip-toe across
the creaky floor to my room.
Sending out telepathic prayers
to dead saints.
The days are ghosts in broken homes
that aren’t ours anymore. We sold it
over a decade ago to another family
And wished them luck.
Now my father takes a picture of
Every sunset. Over golden fields
Cornfields that know our names
Over-dried grass and tubers in summer
And snowfall plains
in the time of tired moons.
He texts my siblings and me, the picture
from his deck. Each one is more precious
than the last. Especially the ones
where he writes, “Thinking of my kids.”
I can’t help but let the tears blur the image
Just as I start to let the past fade…
