When I was a kid there was always this sour taste on my attitude
that made me want to crouch to the kitchen and sneak a sip of
my father’s coffee. But I think what I really wanted was to steal
a hit from his voice without him feeling it, thinking doing that
would teach me how to speak and carry myself the way he always did,
which was usually with patience, calm and poise.
I remember it being so sickeningly sweet as it slid down into my
stomach, that and it always faintly tasting of his pipe tobacco
which smelled fine enough, until you smoked it and it left this egg
in your throat made from what I imagine a house that had burned
down would leave there if it were ground up into a potpourri,
occupants included, with you downwind.
It dropped into the acid cave of my stomach and poisoned
whatever good time start I was hoping to ride on the back of all day
in the time it took to make a cup of instant. “Yuck, that was stupid,”
I said out loud from my bedroom where nobody except me could
hear me try to get my father’s tobacco and coffee-flavored kiss of
disappointment out of me I now love to sip on every morning
to remind myself of my strengths.