go and have all the fun

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there was no money in my house growing up.
well, there was,
but my dad wouldn’t let us touch.
we were a frugal bunch.
that’s probably why i stole from him so much.

but the adage went,
it was his to do with as he saw fit.
he made it: he alone could spend it,
making all the decisions for the family unit.
that was

until there was nothing left in the accounts to stretch –
he was laid-off from his nine-to-five
and couldn’t make a living doing work on the side.
then my mother got a job –
hurt his amour-propre –
throwing a wrench into his life she had robbed.

he was the man!
how could she do that to him?
their divorce wasn’t on a whim
and he’s had sixteen-years to consider the mess
he’s gotten himself in.
now he lives on Ayahuasca and cinnamon,
reflecting on a life he wished he had lived
while simultaneously saying he’s happier than he’s ever been.
what a fucking kid.
i should know – i’m his kin,
and nurture, not nature, has tuned our different strokes.

he asks if i want a toke.
i tell him nope: i’m driving
and i had already gotten high that morning.
“what’s your mother doing now?”
i thought you thought she was a cow.
“i did, but i forgave her, remember?
when i took that hit last September
and went on that trip, and when i came back
it had healed my id.”

//jf 10.2.2021

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