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Why I’m Writing Poems to My Dead Father
Because I drink
my coffee black,
eat my steaks rare, and still
have things to say. Because the
dress dances on the back of her
knees and whiskey tastes too good
to be sober, I can only wear nice ties
and use words like “tobacconist.”
Because the name of the song
is Sister Golden Hair, it’s about
to rain and I don’t have an umbrella.
Because I’ve drunk too much coffee
and sat up copper-mouthed and trembling.
I want to. Because I’ve lived in bars
surrounded by girls who care
only about loneliness.