ah, your father at the very end,
you said, said he never loved you.
you always knew, you said, he was
a bastard, mean spirited, cruel, caring
nothing about anyone but himself, like
the time he sent your mom away, let her
drive alone, all the way to nebraska for a long
planned family reunion though she had alzheimer’s
and ended up in a farmer’s yard in kansas and you had
to go and fetch her back what, six hundred miles? it must
not be easy for you to give love, either, and who can wonder
about that? your two wives, i mean, your girlfriends, your friends
like me who, when i was leaving, said i love you and you said what
you were able to say, under the circumstances, which was nothing.
Greg Zeck survived Catholic school and did freelance business writing. He’s published fiction and poetry in the little magazines and has three poetry collections to his name (available at Amazon). A few years ago he retired from Minnesota to Fayetteville, Arkansas, where he reads, writes, hikes, bikes, and gardens.
Hot Pot Magazine 