Death of an Artist

My mother left him when I was three
Because a successful marriage needs
At least one functional partner.
They were both—God love ‘em—artists.

I don’t look much like him,
They tell me; it’s my mother
I take after. But what about
My eyes, the color of pine trees?
Or my soul-deep mistrust of Authority?
Or is it more in an innate gentleness
That makes it impossible for me
To run with the Wolves?

He died on a muggy night in April.
Sarcoma of the colon, they say,
Digesting his own blood, until
The lights went out for the last time.
He felt no pain, the doctor said.
But I was there when the darkness came,
Like a door slamming shut on his hand.

He wasn’t a whole man, but rather an
Arrangement of pieces that never quite
Fit together—a puzzle nobody ever solved.
And I wonder how it really was with him,
Ensconced in a canvas chair on the boardwalk,
Drawing caricatures of Florida tourists with
Cameras dangling over flowered shirts,
Raising money for more bottles of
The cheap whiskey he called Old Shitface.

That night I raised a smudgy motel glass of
Old Shitface and offered a toast.
“Here’s to you, Dad. I never knew you,
But, then, who did?”

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