Eventually my father
will drink himself out of the body
and never be let back in.
It’s too late.
The dentures, done with their chewing,
clench their teeth in a cup.
Each honey-slurred word from his mouth,
each clumsy confession of love,
slipped like a token
into a broken jukebox.
There is never enough
sobriety or music in this house.
but the sound of no songs.
Yet, I am still the dutiful son
who dances, the one
who knows music
is about playing the notes
as well as the rests, filling a glass
then emptying yourself.