by Cam M. Roberts

A backed up septic-tank
my Father was, so full of shit,
such an abundance burst
from his every orifice, call it
his mere offending presence – 

His drainage ditch of voice
from the foulest bowels
of his soul, blown out, riveted,
searing geyser of words,
bitch burning – 

Living under a bridge, my Father
did – The bridge is now haunted,
my Father even when alive
was like a ghost, invisible
or absent:

I cannot tell the difference.


© CMR, 2013