Lobsters on the Titanic

I was nine or ten years old
and hadn't yet learned
how little family matters.
We all leave here alone.

My father
born under the wrong sign
and recently back a bachelor
tried his best.
I knew that then
as well as I do now.
I don't know why
but name brand orange juice
was served with every meal--
steak; pasta; orange juice;
no idea.

I slept in a bed too large for me then
in a room furnished like a child's hotel.
The sheets were hunter green--
distinguished, but not the best
for concealing my nocturnal salivation
that plagues me to this day.
I had one of those fans from the 80s
with a vertical line of square buttons
in darkening shades of gray
somehow meant to delineate speed.
Every night I'd lean it
on the head of my mattress
drape the top sheet over the back
and form a cocoon of wind to sleep in
until my father came to wake me.

I hated his voice at that drowsy hour
but now I miss it
and someday I'll mourn.

The grass in his back yard
is high these days
but the neighbors can't see.
I'm glad that he's too busy
enjoying life with my brother
to mow.


Currently reading:
"Merchants of Death" by H.C. Engelbrecht and F.C. Hanighen.

Powder Keg Progressive

They're suspended now
less lethal than ever
cobbled specials mostly
and some heirlooms here and there.

Only one's been fired
of the thirty relics present.
Metal wasn't mastered
by the time of their creation.
Modern ammunition
exceeds its rated pressure.
Tinkers tried their hands
at customizing tools
forming traps instead
for the brave of later decades.

Hanging there from hooks
as Americana slices
steel and wood
and rented dust
the fairest form
of gun control.