The Opportunists — a poem

Nothing tastes right
I’ve had too much coffee.
I’ve driven with white knuckles
And no music playing.
Breathing like I’m running
With a bag full of paper reminders
That my Father’s in a coffin.
So energy pours from my dry eyes
Into the ether
Calling men like dogs to me in the heat of my grief
Hoping
I’ll think of their bodies
As saviour and escape
And while my Dad burns
They’ll give me crematorium dick
And make it all better.

I’m so sorry.
I’ll come to wherever you want.
Only I can make you feel better.