when I walked in the door that day, in the middle of the Dallas December,
and you smiled out of the side of your mouth,
gray hair cut high and tight, said the lion fish died.
When four boys no higher than my waist come running through the door,
time fast forwards without me.
My mother never calls when I'm with you.
Somewhere, milk spoils, but in your kitchen, there's only beer
and day old breakfast sandwiches. Somewhere, behind the cement wall
and indoor fountain, a little voice hollers for you, except he calls you dad,
almost accidentally, but not quite. You think I'm okay because you
can hear me smiling. How could you know the science of spoiling milk?
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