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Two four year olds sit aside each other.
Our fathers face panting anxiety.
Daddy why don't we have a mommy?
The answer meant for vulture's ear's.
All is said is that she was sick.
We just turned the age of four.
That was the first time I saw my daddy cry.
A sweet madness of tears and shameless pain.
Unknown liquid dripping from his nostrils.
As if the strangest thunderstorm had hit.
Long taken breaths with a gasp.
The only time my daddy has cried.
Years and years had peddled ahead.
No questions ever thought of.
Just a few conversations with my lonely conscious.
Truth in my defense is all the words that you know.
The angel that watches and seeks you.
Truth is what I question when I hear of my mother.
Age ten, in a beat up red ford.
Birth certificate lying in the palms of his hands.
The lettering had blinded me with confusion.
We shared a middle name, lee.
I laid awake for years imagining her in my presence.
Painting a picture of her skin with my dainty fingertips, wisping through the air.
Blond hair?
Blue eyes?
Anything?
Hitting the extreme age of seventeen.
Battling attention that has never been given.
A piece of me in the red sea.
Daddy tells me mommy could never had loved.
Driving like a crazy person from here to there.
Her foot could not release from the petal.
Shame and lies for eighteen years.
The lies he told.
The truth has not yet cooled the kettle.
My anger resisting to quit boiling.





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