My father never tells me what he thinks

and it’s because he’s dead that he cannot

seethe into my waking hours like poison

Death’s scythe reaped his scath, my eyes: left hot pink.

Karma assured his slumber lack comfort;

there was no chosen death bed, but instead,

in its place— sixty inches of asphalt.

Being a hunter, I’m sure he’d prefer dirt.

Being his son was worth as much as his word

...which is to say not very much at all,

but alas, his tainted smile will be missed

by many, as floodgates of tears open,

yet when I find a mirror, nothing appears

except my repeated regret in his many missteps

having made not a man but a boy to

just fall short of his expectations.

His yelling to flatten out a crease.

His phantom voice inundating my mind.

Buzzing in my teeth like bees’ wings until

Sniffles, wheezes and coughs start to falter

Whereupon a second thought I wondered:

Why do I still think of what my father

believed of me, since when he was alive,

he was just a light bulb to my sunshine.

His killer’s death was not required for my closure

I was the killer, full disclosure and

Now I thrive. Pity, his life is over.