3/30

3/30 "Dad"

We used to meet for brunch
every Sunday.

And, after,
when we holed up in the diner
with its stockpile of food
and surly fry-cook and his shotgun,
I thought it was kind of funny
and hoped that he might find us here,
alive--run into our arms
and talk about how crazy the world was
(which was all we ever talked about)
and neglect his own harrowing
and unlikely tale of survival.

On Sunday,
like clockwork,
like I almost expected him to,
reliable in only the way fathers can be--
he showed up,
tried to bust his way in--
ripped off the fry-cook’s arm--

for a minute
I didn’t even see him.
Almost blew what was left of his brains out,
cowering there in our booth,
but he just slouched over
sat down
and looked up with me, eyes
clouded over
as if to start our conversation
the way it started every Sunday,
with the weather.