ok2

Sunday
afternoon
conversation
over a cheeseburger and the kabob single:
chicken.
a nice, mostly nameless place.
soccer on the tv.
then baseball.
a youngish waitress who calls them both
“hon.”
she has a ring in her lip.
(bad choice, sad to say.)
outside it’s blustery,
but not too too cold.
he says, “how are you?”
and he lies and says,
“ok.”
he wants to say: “I’m so damned lost and scared
and confused
and anxious that I want
to scream. sometimes it’s
so bad I wake in the
middle of the night
and stay awake ‘til morning.
sometimes I think of ways to
ease the pain – any way.” but he doesn’t,
because it’s not what
a
father
does.
a father doesn’t let on
about fear.
or:
his
father
never
did, anyway.
never did.
not once.
not in all the years.
and died happy, or at
least at peace.
so, he does what he knows.
it’s all he
can do.
it's all anyone does.
so, he says, “ok,”
too.