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By Timothy Matthew Perez

Everyday Father asks for forgiveness from several
deities: Buddha, Ganesha, Jesus, former presidents
Clinton, Nixon and all the Bushes.

Then he swills down half a pint of Jack, sharpens
all his knives, tucks his dog at his feet like a hot water
bottle and closes one eye.

The other day I passed him on the street said, Hey Pops.

He looked right at me, not recognizing the stranger
I have become, said, Don’t call me Pops.

I pointed a hand at him shaped like a gun, said, Bbbbrrrr
you got me dead bang Pops.

Son? He asked. The question hung there: the dirty
truth of our relationship, his little dog trembling
at his heels waiting for the storm.

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