Blinded by the Light

I write him down at the bottom of my list
as if I have forgotten him
or never really knew him.
But I know him and I remember him.
The duck calls and constellations,
the am radio, blaring.
The old smoke filled nova, blue.
The black in his coffee and our days
marching in front of us.
Imperfect,
happily.
And the ballgames.
The smell of him.
It goes unwashed. Unfiltered.
The one time I saw him drunk was laughable, jolly, pj time.
He stopped drinking early, before I was born,
when he became the father
of an addict.
I was too young to notice.
I was old enough to care.
(to be continued)