52 Birthdays (and departed come summer)
He’s at home, An empty home And maybe as an “Empty” him On his birthday with a Wife, One dog And most importantly, The phone, A silent phone, A foreboding phone, Post-52 years, And as many candles, Already blown. These plastic cords Fail to rattle noise. He’s still at home, And She’s in bed, Even the dog’s Unto slumber, But the phone, His only connection, Never leaves his side, Still and both silent. He’s still at home, Wife and dog still In dream, When he shakes off the Dust, Stands And walks to the window. He looks for me, But instead finds a movie, An experimental shadow show, Where silhouettes play Against the curtains And across the street – Sex, Not for him, Not even for his eyes, But he watches. He revels in remembrance of Conception And the only reminder of Life he has left, A hard-on. He soon averts, Out of character And in need of, “Dad,” The phone has more appeal, But still Cannot seem to ring. One day later, Another day, Any “other” day He remains At home, The emptier home, And finally asleep. It’s no longer his birthday, And like the call he’d waited for, He finally slumbers. He’s at home – Tomorrow, The day after, The next week, And at 53, Still awaiting, “Hello,” But the phone Will never ring And though he’ll live, For at least a few more Years, His son, The call that never came, Lived as well, And without a Second thought.
- L.C.
*Note - Previously published as “Bio-daddy” in “Down in the Dirt” Magazine.
