my old man was tough but I wouldn’t call him a bastard,
rough hands, stentorian voice,
but it was those eyes, they were odd in a beautiful yet chilling way , the way he’d stare right
through me, like he already knew the end.
he checked out early, left me holding the bag—
a kid too young to know the game was rigged.
I got older, meaner, learned to drink it down,
fill the empty spaces with smoke and bad decisions,
but nothing ever took root, just ashes in a cheap ashtray.
then my boy, Jack
all bright-eyed, all promise and fire, went cold at nineteen.
like he was never even here.
one day laughing, the next day gone,
As if the most beautiful ghost ever decided to punch my gut and keep walking.
so now it’s just me, an old man stuck between
some past that’s long dead and a future that’s already given up.
they talk about the Father, the Son, and some Holy Ghost—
but what do they know about ghosts?
all I got are dead men’s whispers
and shadows that follow me from room to room.
maybe I’m the ghost now,
some sober, leftover thing, wandering between bad memories and worse nights,
waiting for that final bell to ring me out.
but until then, I’ll keep dreaming of drinking
the cheap whiskey that almost drown me,
chewing the lousy cigarettes I cannot light
and telling those ghosts to fuck off—
because it’s all just a bad joke , a hit—
and I am the punchline.
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