fathers

why don’t i remember more of my dad?
maybe it’s because he’s a builder
and when i think back we were
always making things better.

so we thought. and now here i am
years later, double scotch straight up
the chimney and into the cold night sky
thinking about dad. why did mum
ever marry the guy. how did they
meet and what was the catalyst.

am i him? not much. he doesn’t take scotch.
he hates the cubans i bought the other day.
he swears i’ll have lung cancer
or tongue cancer but fuck cancer.
i’ll sleep when i’m dead and my body will decay
and i’ll be feeding someone’s ambitious crops.
we all die when it’s right and i intend
to die when it’s right for me.

am i him? not much. maybe.
we are both builders, though i’ve never
quite had his knack for picking up a saw
and making the two by four longer.
a little. see how i’m taking you,
ripping you apart, and putting you
back together? he’s never
quite had my knack for making friends
and understanding how people work.

and so it is that i’m sitting on a barstool
with a pen between my fingers,
a napkin wedged under my elbow
thinking about my father, your father,
the fathers of the world, and how we
are not much like them,
no, not at all.