Styrofoam Plates

There's a Saltwater Film

On the Jar of Your Ashes.

I Threw Them to 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 Suburbs 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.

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.

I'll Stand Up and Scream If the Mourning Remain Quiet.

You Can Deck Out a Lie in a Suit, But I Won't Buy It.

I Won't Join in the Presession That's Speaking Their Piece,

Using Five-dollar Words While Praising His Integrity.

Just 'cause He's Gone, It Dosen't Change the Fact

He Was a Bastard in Life, Thus a Bastard in Death (Yeah).