Neck tanned and leathery
not first-nation but
a son of the maple leaf,
his sweat spilled from
Pabst cans his breath
toked from Winston packs.

He mopped hot tar and banged nails
in the Florida sun
between bipolar stupors.

Dad home schooled me
on the practical things
like turning a wrench
sawing pine boards,
and how salty the blood
from my split lip is.

Jeanpaul (god is gracious)
showed me how to respect women
when he played Jimmy Rogers
records and snarled drunken
rage poems at mom,
and when he thrust that blade
into her abdomen.

Mom came home
dad went to prison.
His pump failed back in New Brunswick
and my eye ducts were dry.

Now when I strum his blonde Takamine
I don't hear crinkling aluminum
or his finger on a jammed .22 trigger,
I just hear my music.

Nice poem .

SUPER