There's a saltwater film on the jar of your ashes; I
threw them to the sea,
but a gust blew them backwards and the sting in my
eyes
that you then inflicted was par for the course just as
when you were living.

It's no stretch to say you were not quite a father
but the donor of seeds to a poor, single mother that
would raise us alone.
We never saw the money that went down your throat
through the hole in your belly.

Thirteen years old in the subsurbs of Denver,
standing in line for Thanksgiving dinner at the
Catholic church.
The servers wore crosses to shield from the sufferance
plaguing the others.
Styrofoam plates, cafeteria tables,
charity reeks of cheap wine and pity and I'm thinking
of you,
I do every year when we count all our blessings
and wonder what we're doing here.

You're a disgrace to the concept of family.
The priest won't divulge that fact in his homily
and I'll stand up and scream if in the mourning remain
quiet,
you can deck out a lie in a suit.
But I won't buy it.
I won't join the procession that's speaking their
peace,
using five dollar words while praising his integrity.
Just 'cause he's gone, it doesn't change that fact:
he was bastard in life, thus a bastard in death.