Year After Year

 

Of course you may go out but you must know

when I alone lay down our son, full of formula and promise

I instinctively envision single-parenthood while I sing him

“Wish You Were Here” for the hundredth night.

 

When I was seventeen I envisioned that anthem

sound-tracking my painless, accidental death

featuring my cuckolding crush weeping over my body,

as Pink Floyd synced the monitor, and up the camera went.

 

I am thirty-one and you are thirty-one. In the nursery,

our son maws gibberish in the dark. The female cat

who you correctly identify as my cat, whinges.

Oh wife, come home to me, and spoon my nervous hinges.

Out from the shower

 

 

Downstairs, to my son, my partner sings

This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody),

halting where the instruments will fill

finding the words in her hand.

I put on a pair of clean white briefs

three o’clock on my mind.

 

Last night I bowled alone.

Going home, spoke to the driver

about moving around Ottawa

again and again and again

and again and again. He has a child

and a child and a child and a child.

 

Today, someone’s going to say

the drivers deserve poverty.

 

Yesterday the bachelor

went too long for my tolerance.

The gun games, the liquor tasting,

the big steak I forked for myself.

Ready for the brewery tour

the one guy without a desk job

clapped his hands & said,

“Let’s go see people work.”

 

Looking presentable, I left the Best Western

struggling to close my wallet, the neon sign

reminding, “If you’re here, you’re home.”

Neo-lullaby by Bardia Sinaee

for Jeff Blackman (me)

Napoleon Bonaparte. Atilla the hun.
Coffee and cigarettes give you the runs.
George Walker Bush and Stephen J. Harper.
Plain cotton Dockers to make you look sharper.

Rohani’s untested. Assad is an ass.
Your future’s invested in sarin nerve gas.
Obama’s a saviour. Obama’s a liar.
Your wife’s on the fritz and your baby got fired.

They’ll drown out your whistle with sirens and horns.
NetMums will know if you’re surfing for porn.
Saddam is still hanging. Bin Laden’s gone deep.
You’ve been replaced by unmanned aerial sheep.

Bardia Sinaee is a talented poet, a caring publisher, and good friend. His press, Odourless, makes some fine books. His poetry has appeared in some pretty esteemed places, and he won The Walrus’ Readers’ Choice Poetry Prize in 2012. I once cracked a toe nail on his property.