Strange how—
I still love this poor country
In spite of its faults
Like my alcoholic father
Who was never very indulgent
But let me figure things out on my own
Late nights, through paper doors
I would curse his name
And wonder why he would do such things
Nothing left unhurt
He heard me through the air conditioning vents
And said he loved my freedom
To say the things he could never admit to himself
And he promised to get help
But he never did.
Like the son born with Down’s Syndrome
Who just drools and smiles
And makes messes without cleaning anything
But you look in his soft, sunken eyes with sympathy
And tenderness
He is just an example of the way things are.