A poem.

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i look at you
and then i look at your daughter
and i see a man who will do anything.

a man too self-consumed
putting prosperity on the table, not food,
that he can’t make any productive difference in her life.
only fifteen, already too late
with shorts that leave nothing to hide,
a glare through deep holes entwined
so you can’t see the fear they leave behind.

with a handshake and blank, vacant eyes,
you make an impression that negates your foundation
beyond the Michael Hill cross around your neck
and grease that curls your hair.
she’s scared.
your partner is unaware
of the nights the fights left you with nowhere to sleep
so you sought refuge in her keep.
a drunk, sober stupor.

you love her.
you’ve lost her.
years slip by without her.
there is an odd calmness to a middle aged man
who has already played the chips in his hand.

//jf 11.18.2020

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