Gee, Vic
I been stinko
he said from the bed
the hospital put him in
after the sleeping pills
plus Old Heaven Hill
rendered Dad pie-eyed and mute
on the living room couch.

In a day or two, he was sober,
and much enjoyed the society
of his roommates.  Mom,
never one to care for meetings,
went once to Al Anon.

One June in what we didn’t know
was his last year of life,
Mom packed his bag.  I
coerced him into the car.
Shit, Vic, take me home
he growled as we drove up
to the annual silent retreat,
his 33rd, with the Jesuits,
and the Men of Milford.

Instead of home we stopped off
to get some food in him
at a restaurant on the way.
A polite waiter I would have liked to kill
served him his Manhattan.
Then he went on
to make a good retreat.

No kind of meteorologist back then
knew to predict the perfect storm
of addictions, mood disorders,
low serum folate levels in the brain.

Still and to this day,
there’s no one else can sing
O Salutaris Hostia like my Dad.