with your older brother

and your son

in the car,

typically

you wouldn’t pull over

to the side of the road,

off the beaten path

in Ipswich,

and jump off a fucking bridge //

into the shallow water, mind you,

because you saw someone

ten years your junior

attempting it too.

you wouldn’t hit the riverbed,

slicing your foot

the long way,

so deep

that you couldn’t work the clutch

anymore.

so your brother,

who lost his license

somewhere in the ’70s,

has to drive you

to the emergency room,

your son in a booster seat,

after you commiserated

with the other guy (ten years your junior)

who somehow managed

to mangle his hand.

typically,

you wouldn’t do that,

but my dad did.

and when you can’t escape the day,

or afford a moment to think,

let alone feel,

you don’t think—

you take the thrill in front of you,

as consolation prize,

even if it’s only a laceration.

-

many years later,

maybe it’s something else:

Thailand,

a ski trip in Aspen,

while the family was all laid up

on the couch

with bandaged feet.

he never didn’t love us,

he just never had an adventure,

i reckon.

and when he finally had

a few chips to play with,

he ran.

typically,

men don’t do that,

but my dad did.

then so did i.