THE POEM IN WHICH HE FORGIVES HIS FATHER FOR THE YEARS OF DRINKING
By David Troupes

I
When I was very young
my father pointed to Orion,
winter's vacuous sky-pylon.

II
Now it's always there,
sprawled like a drunk on the floor,
seen once and so seen forever.

III
But I'm tired of a sky crammed
with the dead,
with what can't be undone or unsaid.

IV
And in truth I've forgotten
which room his head was in,
the dining room or the kitchen.

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