Hosanna from the Hip

"Repent!" he said above my head
to heathens not present
only the susceptible ten-year-old son
stuck by visitation rights
deemed fair by the fine State of New York
and an unaffected courtroom.

"Glory!" he'd shout thrice
one for each of the Holy Trinity
as we crested Storm King Mountain
on our way to church
or my mother's
and it's a small wonder
that I'm only this crazy.

"Repent, for the Kingdon of God is at Hand!"
His black, front-heavy, eighty-something Monte Carlo
the one with the pins that held the hood down
the one where the heat always ran, even during summer
the one that only opened on the passenger side
the one in which he hit a car in Stony Point
and picked up his vanilla cone from the floormat
wiped off the gravel and continued to lick
that one
was pulled down to Cornwall
the lowland of our trip

but in life's many nadirs
I've discovered since then
that it's much more than that
at stake, Old Man.

You took something
that wasn't mine to give.
I wish I could tell you
awake
sometime.