letters #7

In the evening, always my father out there behind the pane
low emissivity glass, a clang getting back to bed
in the briefest moment of
my droppedvguard, an indian tobacco
and the back door coincided at once
and the fire was lit and we struck it out
having the confidence of none
there, this man, named bobby -- elsewhere, names dumbed
       who in realty made a slight fortune,
whereas I, in my grey briefs sat on an upturned bucket
and made no glances at my father
blew out the smoke, god, in defiance of it and him
      staring, having only the nerve to stare
at the string of ash
made my point -- which never in English
         was sharp enough
nor in Cantonese
and marked my X on the newly settled cement
white from the NE sun here, where y rs ago, ARTES was set in stone
now weather be cool
and father be silent
and butts go into the trrash
and the microwave humsn in place of real talk

hours later the cooling evening which persists, cooing Fall
and autumn and low light
still he clangs and squeals metal
and I, up here in my tower, imbibe in grapefruit vodka
and make my gun metal rattle off poems     trusting that my mother
    will hear it, even in the kitchen when the exhaust fans run
and calls me down to dinner.
Knocks over at my door.eat, eat and eat, and eat
and eat eat eat  ,  and having eatened  come down again
when there is more to eat
the c   van door slams shut, ad I can hear every step in the house
by the pace of steps alone
I'm boiling within my stomach
having not eaten, finish ,
and decide to head down
to eat.