my dad

my dad left me when i was eight
a postcard from toronto
from that time he took my sister kate
and a picture of him with a sunburned chest
hair all messed
from the wind
arm around my mum in her bathers
i guess it was taken by the neighbours
standing proudly the man with his woman in front of the house
an antique adding machine
a t-shirt with a bootleg mickey mouse
and an unopened package of moondust exploding candy
from the USA
a long leather coat
in the inside pocket there's a note telling me that things will be okay
they're not, of course
or they are in a way
i've forgotten what he looked like now, to some degree
like me i guess on account of how all those folks tell me so
so there's that too i suppose
all these things
and the things that aren't things
my knack for a joke
that isn't funny
the art of wanting but not making any money
the music that i cannot play
putting shit off for another day
that was him and that is me
all part of what
my dad left me when i was eight