Those size fifteens
will be the death of him.
But I’ve got to start with his heart.
It blows like a smoke alarm
unable to decipher the difference
between dust or fire-
(money or family history
can easily set him off.)
Can’t fight self-medication:
vodka & orange juice/the booze gets
“hidden” – liquor-store-brown paper bags
above the pantry where my mother
keeps cleaning supplies.
jazz is math & math is god.
Powell, Bird, Mingus, Monk.
My father used to sit and cry
playing seventy eights
(that shit’s so beautiful!)
Years of tears & little “tastes”
diabetes is a vulture
plucking at the bottom of his
big black feet.
vodka in a bag
crisp liquid amber leaves
can’t hide fall