In one direction
a man-beast
spilling from the couch.
The remote control
a sceptre in his
bulbous hand.
In the other,
no sign of a man.
Just complaints from
my mother.
missed payments.
mounting bills.
I'm left in the middle
searching for a role model
that I may never find.
2 comments:
I avoid speaking to my dad as much as possible. I actually had to talk to him yesterday. I thought of this afterwards. The fat guy is my stepdad. Hopefully this doesn't depress people too much.
This poem is another example of the great precision you have with words: your languishing over them is worthwhile. All the key words hit the right note, particularly in the first stanza describing your stepfather: "man-beast"; "spilling"; "bulbous"; and I especially like the metaphor, "scepter."
I get a stronger sense of why you cherish your fatherly role as much as you do. Violet's a lucky girl.
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