My father died in my arms
early on a Thursday morning.
I wasn’t scared, I wasn’t even sad.
there was no time or room for that;
that was my mother’s job.
At the time, my brother and I
worked in the same warehouse,
the same dirt, the same grime,
the same bullshit from corporate pricks.
The day after my dad died,
my brother was back at work,
and I made it in the day after that.
We probably worked harder those few days,
than we ever had before.
And we got a lot of awkward looks,
uncertain stares that said,
“Hey, what are you doing here?
You should be at home, wilting and weeping.”
But like our hard-working Irish father,
we are blue-collared through and through,
until one day we too kick the bucket
butt naked on the cold linoleum
of the bathroom floor
some unsuspecting morning.
And though we have a lifetime to mourn,
the truth is,
bills don’t stop for death
and rent is always due on the 1st.