Letter 17 -
The Father House
Dear Alien.
My father was a Redneck truckdriver from Yorktown, Indiana
Who spent his later days sucking back
Stroh’s beer
In the Dickey Mouse TavernOn Highway 32.
He smoked Camel Straights.His steaks were eaten raw.
But hamburgers were done well
Or not at all.
Sent back.
Back to the kitchen with Mama
That sometimes had milk.
The house I remember best,
(Or most, anyway)
Was dandelion-gone-to-seed yellow and
Damn Big.
Too big for my thinking now.
Not big enough for the child I meant to be.
I went back and found where the house used to be once.
Found it gone.
Replaced.
Replaced by years of thoughts of
Fleas on dogs and
Backyard pussy-willows gone soft and rich.
Justly gone.
We had only rented.
Rented the times when the
Shine on your skin went
Unnoticed by you and
The sun was a friend,
Not a threat.
When spiders and sirens were
Somehow alike
And the soft, summer lightning
Spelled God.
There is no door through which to
Request intrusion now.
No stairs to climb nor
Remember to sweep.
No backyard porch to
Stack dirty clothes on or
Jump off of when bravely
Showing others your wings.
Justly gone.
Rubbed out of my eyes like a busy day.
My father’s presence is everywhere still.
Even here.
Where nothing exists but gravel.
It is here he returns like a bottle..
It is here still I follow him home.
