Dry Confession

“hate is a rather strong word,”
he says, pulling the mug from his lips,
setting it down with a hollow clatter
on the diner’s cold and freckled table.
the mug sits close to the edge.
if i pound my fist on the table,
like i’ve been planning to do
for all these years,
it would fall.
the words “world’s best dad”
would shatter into
a hundred porcelain pieces.
is this deja vu?

when the waitress scurries up
with a refill for his coffee,
he declines.
he’s not drinking coffee—
coffee won’t get you drunk.

i can smell his demons
from across the table,
lurking behind yellow teeth,
yellow stains on his jeans;
they are my demons too.
when i pass by empty baseball fields,
when i see a kiteless sky;
when i search for missing pictures,
when i look in mother’s eyes—
those demons laugh inside my nose;
i wish i could sneeze
and get rid of this cold.

his mug is empty, my eyes are full.

“dad is a very strong word.”