“You son of a bitch.”
That’s what he said.
That’s what the man heard
sitting at the bar.
“You son of a bitch,”
the kid said a second time
when the man at the bar
old enough to be his father
didn’t respond.
You don’t respond right away
to son of a bitch
if you’re sitting at a bar.
You take your time.
You want to turn around
real slow if
you turn around at all
and see who said it,
see if they’re talking to you
and if they are talking to you
it may be a fight
whether you are one or not.
So he started turning
real slow.
“You raped my mother.
I’m your son.”
“So that’s it,” thought the man
half turned from the bar.
This guy is my son.
He looks like me.
“Glad to meet you,” he said.
“Buy you a drink?”
The younger man stood still.
The one with the glass took another
sip and said,
“Looks like you found me.”
Then he said,
“Sure enough do look like me.”
Then he asked,
“How’d you find me?”
“She told me your name.”
The older man nodded.
“How is she?”
“What do you care?”
The empty glass stayed
in the hand of the man
who shook his head
and said just in case
he needed it,
“I didn’t rape her.”
“That’s what she told me.”
“I don’t care what she told you.”
“How do you even know we’re
talking about the same woman?”
The youngster couldn’t keep track
of his anger.
“She didn’t want me to be the father,”
spoke the sire at the bar.
He turned his back to face the mirror
lined with bottles.
“I don’t deny anything,
except I didn’t rape her.”
“I still say you’re a
son of a bitch.”
“Same thing I said to my old man
the day of his Fiftieth Wedding
Anniversary and I meant it.
We all do sooner or later, Sonny.
Sure you don’t want that drink?”
♥