Jethro Tull Flute Solo

Woke up from an accidental
evening nap, the kind that makes you
roll in bed sleepless later on, with my eyes
fixed on theirs in that ancient
photograph wedged in the trim of
the mirror on my dresser.
The edges rolled by the years
helped their faces meet mine.
The thumb blocking the lower-left
corner of the shot proved
that my father hadn't been
the only one drinking that night.
I wondered if they both wore white
to the party intentionally
and wondered even more
how much longer that look of
sincerity had lasted in their eyes.
I hadn't been born yet
though maybe there's not a drink
in her hand because she knew
she was pregnant.
Maybe she should've drank
and done hard drugs regardless.

I hate that picture
because of what it evokes
almost as much as I love it
and the churning it can still deliver.
The main thing keeping me
from taking it down is simple:
they were happy once;
that, and the fact
that I see myself
in my old man's face.
It's a reminder of what to not let happen.

Someone once told me...
Someone told me something...
...but that was a long time ago.

Poor bastard.
I hope he has his mother's eyes.