To My Father’s Whiskey

What’s more painful:

Holding on or letting go?

I ask my father

While he sips whiskey.

My words are wasted;

The brown liquid says something

Far more interesting.

He has no need for

Unnecessary questions;

The addition of vibrato

To his song of simple notes

Following the tune:

She lies

He drinks

She cries

He drinks more

A rhythmic cutting

Of weeds above their

Roots reverberates

Through the garden.

I tell my father

While he sips whiskey

Nothing is more painful

Than dull music

And half assed yard work.