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A Paper Bag Childhood

Poetry By: Morgan Lee

A poem about a photo of my father and I.

Submitted:Dec 15, 2011    Reads: 12    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   

Brown Papered Childhood

That is my daddy and I faded and stained.

Focus; Carpenters tan and my tiny fingers in his mustache.

I was Four then, before he lost all his hair and all that weight.

There is so much that a family photo won't tell.

My mother was behind the lens.

She forced the man to pose with me. He'd rather not hold me,

He'd rather hold a wrinkled, bottle filled, brown paper bag.

Milwaukee's Best and Doral lights started the day.

I still remember that stale smell of beer and tobacco.

Black sun glasses hide the dark circles and bloodshot eyes.

Shaky in the morning and passed out by midnight.

Reflexes are slow now.

No more hand drawn family portraits, with poison in your veins.

You fell further into that Tennessee bottle,

Drowning in self wallow I have little time to care.

Greatness was wasted; memories of a Cat Stevens song.

Letters aren't working and phone calls don't matter.

This is my father and I faded, stained, broken and wasted.

To drunk to notice that I'm far from that little girl with

Tiny fingers in his mustache.


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