Bad Blood
I put my lips to his cheek
Reminded me of winter time, not ice cold
Without warmth yes, but with texture
hard to the touch like a rubber glove on a rock
Thoughts will never leave me
Sad thing is this is the memory that stands out most
Not the little things like dinner or TV
But past conversations about death
Sitting on the front stoop at night conversing
He wanted to believe, yet as time drew near he recollected.
"When I was an altar boy..." and he went on.
And as we stared into the dark, star-filled sky, I was terrified of truths.
Philadelphia was never so quiet, so lonely, so alien.
I could tell he was doubting his own beliefs
Nearing death, as he knew he was, things became concrete.
The inevitable set in and so did regrets.
In that moment I told him how i felt, to reassure him of his beliefs.
It made a difference, re-establishing his faith, so to speak
Mine as well. All I could think of is how scared I would be
If I were He. I prayed.
For strength, and for him.
Out loud, to whoever wanted to listen...
I tried to revive him, you know, for minutes like hours
Hands cupped, pumping on chest
Got too amped, scared, my adrenaline submerged my pancreas.
Broke his rib cage as he had broken promises
I sat there and was lost for second time in my life
Left the room that had been his as a child
Went downstairs took my mind away for a minute
Cannabis didn’t help, I sat there alone
Waiting for the wagon to come and take my new old friend
Big city life, wagon was late, 3 hours sitting
With the carcass of “from which I came” upstairs
We had a moment, both all alone, both on different planes,
We always were
A huge part of me just vanished that day
My spontaneity, my innocence, my mirrored image
No more “life of the party”, I wanted to be alone
Lost, stranded, discarded and left alone
Left me when I was seven, met up again when I was twenty-two
Fifteen year gap between father and son
He could’ve done better, done right
He didn’t, so I did
No regrets; never regret, or regress
If I didn’t move on, I would be him
Stuck in the past
But I am not him, nothing like him.
Yet I am still here, still alone
Questioning as he did
Sitting on the front stoop
Contemplating the Inevitable.
Copyright © Peter Calvanese Jr. | Year Posted 2009
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