but you were only
another whore.
The day I drove to you
through a blizzard
a year later
you'd rolled in bed
waiting for the liquor
and a stranger to leave
as you made promises
you couldn't keep to me
about someday wanting children
and a weight worth three months.
A quarter year later
I came again
this time to check
on your latest drunken fumbling
after a whiskey lunch with your mentor
who was nothing more
than an old pervert
kind enough to drop you off
and tuck you in
with his own false mindwalks
through places that wouldn't be.
You were mad
that I said it smelled like a bar
under your blanket
and I left again
memorizing your address
to send you that published piece later.
Now when it snows
I know to seek shelter
in the nearest place
that knows me
not somewhere in the offing.
My dreams have subtitles
and my antiperspirant's giving
me cancer quicker than tobacco.
I'm doing as the Greeks
when in Rome
only as sick as my secrets--
a total noncombatant
where perspective trumps perception.
A minor's still my favorite chord.
What more do you want from family?
