His god made him simultaneously strong and weak, I was told
Odd, wrong, meek, the surviving spouse at a funeral
Humourless as the miscellaneous bereaved
Stealing joy with an assortment of self-imposed rivalry.
Back in the day, he would frequent the library: determined, bold
Where, with dread, he would flick through the science he never bought
And as stars aligned
He continued to vacuum happiness
Buying only into the inexplicable biblical things
reserved for his kind.
I observed as I was ought:
Pretending not to read him
Pretending not to need him
In case of argument or riot
And because light was at a premium
His eager, bohemian child learned what to cherish
And as he perished, he knew he’d been had.
My father was the dullest dying star at the funeral for his universe
And with me as his nurse
There was no god to see that he was bad.