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Self-Portrait As My Father

Self-Portrait As My Father

Dan Haney

 

Every morning I wake up in the wrong bed.

Slits of noon needling in from strange

angles. I’ll straighten my belt as I leave.

On Sundays I’ll swing by the first church

I see, reach the altar. Pray it off. I’ll stop

at some diner, this one a gutted freight

car with homemade scrapple. The waitress

mentions the snowfall in May—she tells me

it’s biblical. Rapture and suffering. I’ll agree,

say: I hope it comes soon. I never wanted this

life: water bottles sloshing with piss

in the passenger seat. My family a photo

facedown in my wallet. Some people

aren’t meant to stay in one place. So they

loosen the waitress’s apron. Only pay cash.

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