His shakes aren’t shivers,
but more broken nerve endings,
a storm he can’t shelter from.
His life has been lonely, lately,
the distance doesn’t seem great enough,
between him and his loved ones,
not for them at least,
despite the shakes and degeneration.
His friends only last from bar to bar,
his parents only last from nurse to nurse,
kids only last from call to call,
shakes only settle from drink to drink.
He hides it well,
a glance don’t show much,
the only trace, a trail of tea
drops of coffee, water, or beer
on his carpet.


I haven’t written a poem about my dad for years, and never one that wasn’t some angry, angsty thing. about how much I hate him. I don’t hate him. The emotions or feelings are far more complex than that. This implies pity.

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