his father's love. Addicts
have no room for more
than what they crave
rightnowgetithaveitnow.
Responsibility gets in the way,
needy people tend to stand between
them and whatever god they serve,
bottle or powder, pills to
push 'em back, push 'em back,
waaaay back, some random
cheer from a pep rally for
a team he couldn't try out for,
no ride to practice, parents
too strung out. And now his
father's gone, to where he
has no clue. He thought relief
would come eventually, but not
like this, no pulse, a grimace
frozen on his father's face.
A month, a year, things would
have gotten better. He would have
made his father notice him. They
could have gotten clean together.
Now doctors, nurses, friends
keep watch, because he tried to join
his father much too soon, find him
one last time. Beeping monitors,
the television muted while his
girlfriend texts somebody who was
too messed up himself or maybe
just too busy, texting from the chair
beside his bed: He'll b ok.
This is the most attention he
has gotten all his life.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014
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