Busted Pandemic Sonnet for My Dead Dad
You taught me how to touch you like a house
of cards. Focus my breath away from the tilt
of your neck. They painted the coils of a ram’s horns tar heel blue
for that last football game we saw. The fuzzy picture dying
to fade away. The way you hit the hard side of our t.v.
made me flinch. But it worked, didn’t it? That “love
tap.” You saved every receipt. Desk drawers stuffed with evidence
of all you spent on razor blades never used. I barely saw your hair
under that Broncos cap, until you asked me
to cut it all off. Leave the beard, you told me, rusted clippers humming
too close to your cheek. I bought another box
of 50 masks today, tar heel blue. (You’ve missed so much
bullshit). Men on ESPN say we shouldn’t wear them; cosmetic as painting that alpha
-keratin we can’t shed. Cheers, to you, Dad, for not covering your hairy mouth
when I kissed you goodbye.