WTR
to Dad, Uncle K, Fred and a few others
My father
flips flapjacks
from a gas grill,
while a few
of his friends
pass a joint
and bullshit stories
from the seventies.
I’m sitting
by the remains
of last night’s fire,
listening to
smoldering mesquite
crawl deeper into dirt
its sizzle
like the grill
as it spits
and pops batter back
from dad’s fingers.
Every so often
I rummage
through ruins
of charred bark
to rediscover
a blue flame
riffing like a flag.
I hover my hand
above it,
smile
as a blister
forms to an island
in the center of a scar.
Dad dances plates
of eggs and flapjacks
to the table,
rocking hillbilly hips
to Clapton’s contagious solo.
He says: Come sit son,
here, by me, my beautiful boy,
moving a wrinkled
stack of Playboys
and a few bottles of Beam.
I rise to my feet
like white trash royalty,
demand they serve me my meal.
(Published in The Greensboro Review)