The Bad Genes

I often wonder why you can't
bear to hear Cat's in the Cradle.
Is it in the way you relate?
You know, little boy blue,
the man on the moon?
When ya comin dad I -
Forget it.

I remember sounds of snapping
branches, the way an apple falls.
I remember the first bite of
bitter fruit, the taste of hate
searing my tongue, blistering my
lips, lighting a fire in my belly
that still burns. I'd rip you out
if you weren't so rooted.

I remember September 28th.
His birthday was the next day.
I remember feeling alone on mine.
I remember thinking strength was
not letting mom see me cry.
I remember wishing myself away
as we stood in silence, silence
that's since become so familiar.

I remember the last time you left.
Fractured frames littered the floor
of a half-empty home.
I remember blood blotting out the
faces of a father and son, my last
photographs of fatherhood
buried under broken glass.

Now I remember why you're
not welcome in my world.
13 years you've been asbsent
from these pages, strange parallels.
I suppose I should thank you for
reminding me why I write.
Though it took another look
at which way the apple rolls,
I now know,
you don't belong in my poems.