Sometime I will tell you about my father’s drinking,
how he’d sleep one off in the recliner while surrounded 
by family gathered to watch The Wonderful World of Disney. 

I’ll draw metaphor from the car wrecks,
the embarrassing episodes with comely waitresses,
the little league games he showed up to lit,

but fail to mention the stacks of dishes done,
recitals attended without complaint, 
gloss over the tie around the neck 

pulled tight, the late hours keeping a roof overhead,
failed dream of being a fighter pilot giving Charlie heck,
how he blubbered at the end of Brian’s Song,

or his last words in this life — I’m doing the best I can —
whispered through shallow, desperate breaths,
shining an honest light on my duplicitous shadow.