Too Slippery to Grip

Like father,

like son,

like watching

the bomb be set

years ago,

only for it to blow

up in your face now.

I imagine a romantic

roam across the border,

A midnight stealing

into somebody else's

country to come and conquer

it for yourself.

But reality is never as good

as the past,

where dirt floors never existed

or the broom you use to sweep them.

But from them both came a man

who ended up just like his father,

or maybe something a little more

watered down.

How would I know?

I never lived with the demon

inside his chest, the one who

yearned to dominate

from a place too slippery

to grip.

But then he grew and married,

my grandmother no less,

And even later on than that,

I came along to love him,

sitting on the side of his

recliner,

sipping warm beer

from his bottle caps,

marveling at the darkness

of his skin, the lightness

in mine,

Knowing we were connected,

and praying the warmth

Of the beer would lull

our dark demon

to sleep.