my father couldn’t sleep last night
(or the night before or
last year) and he found
the bottle in the cupboard
in his rambling to the man
beside him at the bar,
who was my mother, patricia,
lying beside him in bed,
he fretted that his smart sons and
his wonderful girls
would soon lose their cat
because he was ready to wander again,
back across the atlantic.
but, he said, last week he asked
god for a black labrador.
i am asking god to sing
my father’s lullaby.
