He's been good all year
when our entrées come out
like a reward
for reinvention
and he finally says
what he's always said —
that his life wouldn't
be worth living
without us
which is another way
of saying
he'd kill himself
if not for the few
hours each week he gets
to play hide
and seek with my
son, who always
picks the same spot
behind the couch,
laughing as my father
walks right past him
nailing the part
of the duped
like he was born
to disappoint everyone
but his grandchildren,
born to spoil them
and hold them,
to caw like a crow
one minute and rumble
like a vintage yellow
motorcycle the next,
$45,000 in debt
and a new gun
in the safe.
The same man
who mastered the art
of making
my mother cry
and left me
a set of his keys
so I'd be the one
to find him
in the bathroom
of his second floor walk-up
on Main, to search
for a pulse and put
both hands
to his chest,
trying to remember
how deep to go,
how soon to breathe,
how often I tried
to convince him
to stay. Even the night
of my wedding,
even now
I pitch therapy
and a summit
with each sibling
he's told off,
order a dessert
I'm too embarrassed
to maul the name
of, pointing to it
with a smile
our waiter almost
forgives and agreeing
when my father leans
into the candlelight
to say We can
tell each other anything,
can’t we? My mind
going to that year
in college I stood
outside the dorm
my new friends
were partying in,
trying to decipher
what I was hearing
over the phone —
the wind chimes
on the back deck
going wild, his two
untrained dogs
barking, the chamber
opening, the chamber
closing, something
about why I had to be
so far away.