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Your father’s favorite
bobblehead,
his fingers dancing on your scalp
irritating rusted springs
three taps from snapping.

You cry
every time he calls.
Wah-wah,
like Charlie Brown and
old cartoons
the 1930s, when men
jumped out the window
a mass exodus to the ground
and no one noticed
‘til after
‘til cerebrospinal fluid
flowed around the “haves”
in oblong rushes brushing
the “have nots.”

You look out at the scenery
a daydream distracting
phone pressed to your ear
and they tell you not to jump.

He pressures you
like a shaken cola
a bursting catheter.
You gust out of a
punctured aerosol can
into school, postponing life—
don’t date in college—
a cerebrospinal geyser.

You think about the after
the milk and honey that flows
out his mouth into the receiver
tickling the down in your ears
that keeps your balance.
Just one more year.

And after everything—
they said
you should’ve spent more time
with your father.
:O
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Submitted on
September 17, 2009
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