My dad stands up
and leaves the room.
At 73, he has to pee
all the time.
I’m in the bathroom
and he goes outside
on the flowers
of our neighbor.
She lives alone, and watches him relieve himself.
Now, she has a big brown dog
that watches her place
“It’s okay Howard. You don’t need to mark your territory,” the neighbor-lady says.
“Actually, I do!” My dad shouts.
She goes inside, disgusted.
He and her dog have the same name.
“Sorry dad. I didn’t mean to keep you out of the bathroom.”
“That’s okay, son. Somebody needs to show that dog who’s boss.”
“What do I do with my life?” I ask.
He leaves the room. Then he comes back.
“I could be a leader.”
He leaves again.
“You know, that program I was in, was terrible. I was going to email them this poem, but I never did.”
My dad leaves again.
“Did you write it?” My mother asks.
He comes back. My dad wants to escape my vanity.
Sometimes, it’s there
but most of the time, it’s a false alarm.
He farts. “Oh—time to go.”
My dad comes back. “False alarm.”
He stands up
and sits down.