when my father dies,

I am like chalk on sidewalk.

I have prepared myself for this

moment for years.

when planning the funeral,

I am like summer on

a sunday night.

I tell the mortician exactly

which casket he deserves,

and say the suit doesn’t matter.

when giving my speech,

I am like ice in water.

I don’t lie; I tell everyone

what a horrible person he was.

when my father dies, I am

fear living in bravery’s attic.

I walk like a titan through

a door that isn’t there.

I know he’s drinking whiskey

off the moon’s shoulder

and bad-mouthing me to the stars.

I am tired like a cantaloupe

left rotting in someone’s fridge.

when my father dies,

I count the days

until he dies again.

_(nts: remember, when it doesn’t make sense, it makes sense. and that heavy feeling in your chest? that’s agreement.) _