Sunday Poem

FALSE IDOL 

The march against my father, who art alone,
Wandering the heavenly echelons of the food chain,
Whose will be done unto plot upon field of fiction
In the name of abundance, unknown known be thy name.
He whose skyscrapers rose to the occasion
Of snakes and ladders, brass ring rashes and gold holed up in silver mines.
He whose boss is a dick hungers to be in pole position.
He who made a first name for himself with the Lord in mind,
Pithy and civil, knowing it takes one feeling farmer to know another 

And commodify the countryside.
Here was a man who never found out
What the third fork was for, whether love was the eleventh province.
He who reads after burning, knows what you need to know,
Who was and is and is to come, whose appearance would be his vanishing,
An invitation to an art opening thousands of years ago.
He who is unwelcome in his own Edenic dream
Of a nuclear family. Redemption is a hell of a thing,
Though they rarely roll the tape that far. 

The march against the march against those with absent fathers
Shall inherit the earth, the birds in faulty feathers, the Father, the Ghost,
And the You within You, the saving lie of three being better than two.
In the name of all the time before you were born, and all the time
After you die, let beer bottles sweat before firepits
Like Christmas in July. Life's too long to edit. It's never too late
To become what you already are. Here is what you need to know.
All will be forgiven. What doesn't kill me disappoints me.
For the love of God, go to reception and ask for Andy.

By Andy McGuire, from Country Club (Coach House, 2015)