There is no noise
except in her mind,
hollowed emptiness
like an abandoned tunnel.
She watches him
down at the local tavern.
She feels the sight of this throat
pulsating from the flow of beer.
Mother has her apron on
planning dinner, the three
of them around the same table.
Father, please listen.
She's eight and he's eighty.
By the end of the evening
the strangers hug and kiss her.
Play games of falsified love.
Dad are you listening?
He is short, pus filled dimples,
cropped hair, like a bristle brush;
baggy pants, pot belly, stained shirt.
Daddy are you listening?
He wants to take her to the movies,
hold hands,
and
kiss in the dark.
Make her play grown-up.
D A D D Y.
Can't you hear?
Don't you want to play,
toss her in the air,
feel her pulse beat?
Sir are you listening?
Sure I am, can't you see?
Place your hand on me.
Feel the movement, the desire.
Let me teach you these things
before you grow too old.
Can you hear her,
don't you see,
are you there?
I'm right here in front of you.
Be a dear, fetch me a beer.
Just to quench my thirst,
cool my throat, settle my stomach.
Be a dear, look after me.
After all, I am your father.
Robert Allison
05/04/85