Since
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.
Ubi sunt 