Your fathers 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 dont 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 shouldve spent more time with your father.