WEBVTT

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This was also
written at the beach.

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It's called "Father's Day," and
it was written on Father's Day.

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Happy Father's Day to the bums,
to the ghosts, to the crooks.

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Happy Father's Day to the
ragers, to the drunks,

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to the sops.

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To those who stopped
sending the support checks,

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forgot junior's big
game, happy day.

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To the dad who shaved
his weeping lad's head,

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leaving little nicks
with the dull blade,

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to the one who paid a
tart to get his minty boy

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laid, happy, happy day.

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To the angry cop
stomping while his son

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hid in the dust
underneath the porch

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or threatened to shoot his
girl from the tree she climbed,

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the one who in the bath
put a rough, nailed finger

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up his boy's pretty pink
behind, today is your day.

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To the one who sat on
the edge of the bed

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to tell the kids he wished their
mother dead, we remember you.

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Your moods and your
smells, your love

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like a pale thing creeping
at the bottom of a well.

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If there's a hell,
it's full of dads.

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So sad.

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And we, their childless
children, it all stops here.

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Kids, you're in the clear.

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The high, clear air
that is nothingness,

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blameless, and
brainless because you

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are lifeless and ageless
coming into this world only

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on this page.

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Your little undone life,
no wife, no strife,

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not anything at all.

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Last call at the
empty airport bar,

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we're all just a burnt out star.

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And dad is dust
and sand in a sack,

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a black spot in the road, a
toad I rode over with the Jeep.

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I didn't mean to.

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I didn't mean to at all.

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