I came, a random derivative.
One sperm
threw an elbow and so, I am
my father’s son.
His hackneyed jabs
at the edges of things
always bounced awry, and so
do I.
Always with the half-formed plans
of drunken imagination, he loved
procrastination until he died.
The barman cried.
I trace his steps in cool
darkness. I stand thirsty,
my father’s son. His blood
is the sound of whiskey on ice.
This is so full of every kind of emotion–how do you do that?
It’s real.
so real. makes me cry.
yo sis