The Jackal of Chaos found my Dad a gold watch for Christmas,
wrapped it in tin-foil and brought it to his house,
where she found him alone on the couch
in nothing more than his shorts,
the glare of TV on his face.
“Where are the others?” she asked him
(my Dad with the messy hair)
who sat on the couch
with nothing more than old popcorn
occupying that seat next to him.
“Where are the cousins?” she asked
“Where are Ray and Charlie and that
Syrah girl who wants to build a rocket ship
and leave this place? Did you not invite the carpenter?
The plumber? The bleary-eyed gambler from that dark alley
beside the Taco Bell? I see a party for one with no decent snacks
– and that’s boring as all hell. Turn up the heat a little.
Invite the woman with the purple nails.
Call her three sexy friends. And, oh call that guy Adam too
(I used to howl and sing with him back in the day.)
While we’re at it, summon four generations
of a swordsmithing family, and have them sharpen our knives.
We’re going to need a doctor before this night is over.
Maybe a city planner too.
Bring a farmer with a big hat and ask them necessary questions:
Where are the crows?
The snakes?
Our sons and daughters?
Your son, I know him.
He climbs mountains in the wintertime,
and in this long and cold season,
who does he pitch his tents with in the snow?
Of course, some people carry strange tattoos
and others walk with clear eyes
– and some have both –
as far as you’re concerned,
where have they all gone?”
My Dad laughs,
flipping the channel from cheap Chinese cartoons,
to re-run sitcoms re-running for the zillionth (∞) time.
“Home,” he said, “they went home to a place far away
with a name that I cannot pronounce.
Meanwhile, here I grow: old like fine potatoes.
A dreamer who lives even as the dream fades away.
Would you care for a cup of death or taxes?
We may sit here a while and
watch the last few minutes of this great show…”