remains
of the haunted inn
where your father bar-tended,
and made you into a bar-baby,
long before you found comfort in spirits.
When your parents finally divorced.
You dressed like a magical pixie
and tapped patrons
with your wand,
allowing them the wishes
that the booze couldn't grant.
But,
even more so,
you wanted to ride
the dumbwaiter
from the bar
to the kitchen.
They would give you maraschino cherries,
as you listened to the plates clang
and clash.
That ride was your one desire.
And they denied it.
A few days ago,
that inn burned down.
And our friend was there afterwards
taking pictures.
You wanted to buy one.
Why?
You haven't spoken to your father
in 8 years.
You wished that he caught fire
instead.
Should we drive to New Jersey
and steal what's left of his record collection?
Or should we worry
that he'll show up at the wedding.
Demanding answers
from a room full of Irish
and Puerto Ricans?
I'd pay to see it...
Now, the inn
is the ghost of a memory now.
Yet, here you are.
Red hair crescendo,
dancing by the sandalwood incense
in front of the living room window
to soft music.
Where were you on the night
that your past
went up
in flames?
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