The Ice Cream of Desperation

I.
Father owns bald heads and double chins,
attacks the smell of beer and pot
that crashes to my nostrils as he grips
my bleeding hands away from innocence
and closer to the trap where victims lie,
where Plato told us that “death is not
the worst that can happen to men,”
so I might listen to Father
as he battles with my desperation
when all I really wanted to do
was eat my ice cream and hide in closets,
so it startles me that Father should have
any words coming to him at all.

II.
With the backbone of fire,
he furthered the perpetual thrusting
in
out
in
out.


III.
Father, won’t you stop?
You promised
once
twice
over the six year interlude,
through broken windows, intrepid footsteps,
and in that year
I told on you.