There's a saltwater film on the jar of your ashes.
I threw them to sea, but a gust blew them backwards.
And the sting in my eyes that you then inflicted,
Was par for the course; just as when you were living.

It's no stretch to say you were not quite a father,
But a donor of seeds to a poor single mother that would raise us alone.
We never saw the money that went down,
Your throat through the hole in your belly.

13 years old in the suburbs of Denver, standing in line,
For Thanksgiving dinner at the Catholic church.
The servers wore crosses to shield from the sufferance plaguing the others.
Styrofoam plates, cafeteria tables; charity reeks of cheap wine and pity.
And I'm thinking of you.
I do every year when we count all our blessings,
And I wonder what we're doing here.

You're a disgrace to the concept of family.
The priest won't divulge the fact in his homily,
And I'll stand up and scream if the mourning remain quiet.
You can deck out lie in a suit but I won't buy it.
I won't join in the procession that's speaking their peace;
Using five dollar words while praising his integrity.
Just cause he's gone it doesn't change the fact:
He was a bastard in life, thus a bastard in death.