814 Father in heaven? 2-1-19

In my Fathers house
were many women.
If it were not so,
I wouldn’t need to tell.

That includes my Mother,
for a brief stint,
twenty five years,
give or take.
I mean,
after all,
I am here
as is my sister.

But Fathers other women were
nothing like his wife.
She, explosive tempered Irish,
frigid Norwegian ice,
ignited by the sparks he,
spareingly,
chipped from his flint.

His other women were
turner’s on
or turned on,
like the one who came on to me.

It didn’t work.

Rather,
it brought forth
her bemused, smiling confession
when I bluntly asked her if
her gentle seduction
of that 17 year old me
in my fathers Greenwich Village apartment –

(incidentally,
conviently vacated by him
in his urgent rush to buy
toilet paper, kilbassa and Vodka
at D’Augostinos,
in a 15 minute errand
that stretched into a 2 hour absence
by a chess game or three in
Washington Square Park)

was an

– arrangment-

between them?

She said, “Your Father is worried.”

As he and I had talked,
I said,
” Yes.
I know.
About my persistant virginity,
so he…

(and here I didn’t say, but meant, ‘hired”)

…recrutited…

you for my first time….

Right?”

She was a salty, savy, pretty lady, 45ish,
(but at 17, how would I know?…)
She back-pedalled, softly, delicately,
under my questioning.

“It wouldn’t be like that,” she purred.

“Tell him not to be concerned.
I don’t live by his clock
and I own my own cock.

I left before he returned,
toilet paper, kilbassa and vodka
in hand, I hope.
I’d hate for his odessy
to have been a total waste.
I never learned
what she told him.
He never mentioned that aftenoon
to me
nor I
to him.

Seven years later on my 24th birthday,
I relieved his angst during dinner at Lu Chows,
by announcing that my new girl friend
had sweetly brought about the consumation
for which he had so devoutly wished.

What the heck?

I was due.

He celebrated by inhaleing
a third Rusty Nail
and paying the bill.

In my life,
father-son
games of catch in the Sheep Meadow
are not what
they’re cracked up to be.

Nor were our chess games,
our stratagies as different as
Russian and German,
tactics as brutal as
Mongol hordes.

And now,
whenever I pray,
“Our Father”,
I see him,
in heaven,
knocking back his drink
and picking up the check.

Perhaps,
the Goddess,
or Mother Earth,
or Mary,
maybe…
instead,
for the target of my lobbed prayers
tossed over no-mans-land
in desperate search of armistice.

About Ken Greenman

Married and Happy. Retired and busy. Living in NC. 71 and counting. December 12, 2020 and it's 72! ... I would love some written comments, critiques, adulation or kind suggestions.... If you have the time and or inclination, please feel free! Not in fear but by faith. We will see. See you later! If you ever want to talk for real, email me and I will send you my cell number.... I am enjoying this!
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