I say Hi Pop, and he forgets to forget who I am,
how he despises me, I mean all of me,
not merely a finite number of particular aspects
or characteristics or habits like
my liberalism or sarcasm or mesmerizing
hand movements he says I make when I talk,
but my being, my being alive simultaneous
with his manipulating everyone in his
sight. He refuses a bag of candy I bought him
with the same sneer I see in the dreams
where I’m still seven years old
and believe in wanting his attention like I believe
in Santa Claus, a jolly old fellow, who,
for other people, remains lovable despite the
elaborately cruel hoax. Lovable isn’t a risk
with my old man, who waves off a doting nurse
while asking for a glass of juice, since
They don’t serve beer in this crummy dump,
which by the way I better not be spending his
hard-earned retirement on. I drop
a piece of hard candy in my mouth, spearmint,
so the old fire in the back of my throat
might be dampened, just a little,
so I can resist yet again telling Dear Old Dad
his hated oldest is taking better care of him
then he did for any of his “ungrateful
kids.” Where are they by the way
he’d ask, if ever I did say such a thing out loud,
They’re safe in their homes, I’d say,
figuring out how to forget you forgetting them.