Dad

He lay on the couch with the worn gold pattern,

his head hanging off, a death grip on his bottle,

drooling on the rug braids with 100 proof spittle,

heaving into mixing bowls when drowning from withdrawal,

his beauty burning bitterly, corroding through our family.

His gentleness metabolized in ways his body couldn't,

gestating into madness simply hating for existing,

giving up the ghost at last in a joyless plunge to bottom,

looking past oblivion on the way to a toe-tag gurney.

But there was light mixed into darkness from a man who treasured Christmas,

sharing powdered donuts and the love of Sunday funnies.

Teaching me to ride my bike and breakfast made for dinner,

buying kites and Uno bars and Birch Bay beach trip summers.

Past a 52 year old cirrhoses crippled body

lived a joyous spirit trampled into viscous poison.

Maybe I can ferret out the diamonds in the dogshit,

shovel past the toxic bits and scrounge for fonder memories.

Fond remembrances, they clearly do exist:

it's just the smell of the rest that keeps me away.