I stared out the window
as though I alone,
among the prayers
my lips excused,
could find you in a bar.
I’m sure I wouldn’t have
to look too hard.
Dad recognizing me
would be a first.
I had a fast car
with a suspended license.
I’d go.
You don’t believe me.
Hell, most times,
I don’t believe in myself.
But this time, I’d search
taverns with busted lights
hanging from crooked signs.
Or dive bars; you always liked
a cheap drink.
Perhaps a rundown hotel?
I can totally picture your ‘87 pickup truck
parked cock-eyed in the lot.
I picture what I can’t observe
because this time last year,
God called you home.
But pretending to see you,
keeps me living.