My Father Was a Painter

My father was a painter whose dead men were trigger-happy and unlucky

My father knew a man who fixed men

who would’ve liked to kill his wife

son and daughter and told him so

So he quit working at the prison and got a brand new job

and a brand new car for that daughter 

who would’ve been seventeen at the time

her head flew clean through that brand new windshield

My father knew a man who had a real sweet woman

who tore through the country together

in the sun-baked truckbeds and backseats 

of men gracious enough to pick up two longhairs 

Who made it all the way out to Texas

where they were found buried 

on either side of a saguaro tilting west

My father knew a man who brought a policeman to his door

looking for the man who’d filled his pockets

with grenades and walked into the bank demanding love

For his mother, for his country, and for everyone else

who’d burrowed themselves deep within his ear

Who wouldn’t let up until he came home 

stained red and sorry

My father knew a man who only knew him

Who’d invite him over to listen 

while he opened his eyes wide to the wall 

Who’d hold both hands tight around his mug

until he reached the part when his gun shot 

splitting the jungle into fear of death and fear of keep living

and the table shook beneath his flat palm

Whose next-door apartment he disassembled

whose funeral he arranged

as a young man with too many fathers

and too many hands on his back