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.