Invisible Father

Like speaking into a brick wall, my voice futile and vile to the sound
Of the static, sporadic and nonsensical, like, why are you bugging me
Or leave me alone, Dad, I don’t care or just shut up because you don’t know
Or the constant automated “yes, I know” voice messaging system
Making the rounds like I don’t even matter at all in their hearts.

That’s me, my existence, my legacy, to care and not be heard
When it matters most, because they never had anyone who cared before,
But instead wander aimlessly in the grocery store
Not knowing where to go, what to get, or who to follow,
Like hopeless, rusted, wobbly, empty shopping carts.

Aisle six, don’t forget to brush your teeth — Bequeath to me those sage words,
Wisdom that is folly to them and still meander and roam without direction
In every section, like my voice is some infection slowly melting away
Into nothingness, because no one really cares to find
What they’re looking for in maybe aisle seven, eight or nine over ‘there’.

Still troubled, not knowing where to venture, won’t listen, no pleasure,
Complaining to the store manager of minuscule trivia of Stevia,
Sugar-coated cereals, sweetened with toxins, pulled by mindless oxen
That also don’t know where to go, because the ones steering
Lead the way on this drab, monotone — Aisle eight, don’t forget that I care.

Still not listening, unaware. Nose up in the air, they’ve made their own list
To persist like these carts have built-in GPS, they profess,
And they don’t need my voice at all as I drone on and on and on about
Don’t forget to wash up, don’t forget to put your clothes away,
Don’t forget that I love you today, tomorrow and forevermore.

But they’re not listening. And they never will.
Lost time, lost hope, lost purchases, losing more still
As I continue moaning into the monochromatic floor —
And they certainly didn’t hear that in the next ten minutes,
It will be closing time for this grocery store.