the attempt

monday morning, the rain’s d#
on crooked shingles, slipping
beneath the cracks, praised
by hyacinths, bowing over
the bedside table. 
my papa lies under the leaking roof,
the drops become a metronome,
keep his breaths in time.

beside him,
a black and white photo of a boy
in overalls, shooting bb guns,
button-nosed, unbathed;
it’s my papa on the prairies.
he lived through harsh winters,
never saw much sun,
but no drought either. he kept 
faith in rubbing dimes and fires 
that knew when to die.
	
my papa combs his hair back,
draws the green drapes
drowns out the rain with louis armstrong
thick fist pressed against his left breast,
feels the blues course through.
he waits until the song ends,
eats a dinner roll,
stale as his stories, bland like
monday mornings. he counts

beads up a black rosary,
swallows sixteen pills, ties
a plastic bag over his mouth
and duct tapes it
(should he wake up) 
this poor prairie boy gone
bankrupt, a burden. slipping
beneath the cracks. hyacinths wilting, 
a note leans on the vase,
please don’t tell my grandchildren.

© Mallory Tater