My father sat me down in the freezing cold,
on seats of concrete and ice,
and asked me if I'd like a coat.
I shrugged, indifferent.
A heater buzzed around us,
coaxing a peaceful lull out of the starry sky.
Tonight was steady,
puffy clouds floating seemingly forever.
When the coke in my mouth went flat,
I took a languid glance at my father.
Watching as he sucked in smoke,
exhaling puffs through his nostrils,
Demons ready for their assault.
Thus began the porch talks.
Lessons of morals and dignities,
Seeping acid into my throat
and drilling migraines into my head.
His words had rhythm.
Doted by the beat of the bass above us,
a barrage of curt thoughts,
edging me toward oblivion.
He asked if I was cold.
Yet again I was met with that question,
God was speaking down from the heavens,
So I spoke to him,
in whispers and crackles,
snapping out replies,
bubbling up failures,
and he listened,
deadlocked into a stalemate.
In the end we both went inside.
Our embers in an ashtray,
and our thoughts rising,
exhaust in the breeze.