THIS IS A POEM ABOUT ECZEMA 6.25.17

6.25.17

Your father was never this bad. Why is he acting this way?

This is just how he is, how he always acts.

But I remember him from before, not too long ago, ten or fifteen years ago, we used to drink scotch and shoot the shit and I loved going over to his house. Now he won’t shut the fuck up.

I know, that’s just how he is.

And he has eczema all over his arms and legs.

 

Yeah. He scrubs himself four, five, six times whenever he takes a shower.

You allow him to do this?

He’s almost seventy. I’m not going to tell him how to wash himself.

He’s obsessive compulsive.

I know.

He’s an alcoholic with yellow eyes and halitosis.

I know.

Why won’t you get him help?

Why won’t you shut your mouth before I drown you in that swimming pool, how about that? Jackass. Finish that beer and get the fuck out of my house.

All I’m saying is that he needs help.

And what is it that you need?

I just want to see him better again, is all.

He’s old. That’s all he is. Getting old is a frightening and terrible thing, and he’s doing it. In my book that makes him a fucking hero. We should build monuments in his image and march the streets chanting his name in praise. Instead we talk about how he’s washing himself incorrectly. What’s wrong with us?

I’m drunk.

Me too.

I think I’m going to sit here a while, at least until the sun disappears. I just want to sit here and drink.


Written at 10:57 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA. 

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