Yesterday your parents argued
about maraschino cherries,
no, bing cherries, no
maraschino. Your cousin heaving
over the sink at your uncle’s joke
about vegans, Aunt Christi wiping
the cranberry juice corners
of your niece’s squirming mouth
with a paper tablecloth.
We left when the food did, the little barnyard
mailbox waving its flag at our departure.
At the film house in White Plains
you told me in confidence “I hate
the color of those drapes.”
Our little secret.
Your independent drama debuted at eight.
I slept through all scenes but mine
where I played a slanted man
in his fifties, who wore
dad-fashion like a model
from a Lands’ End catalogue.
You told me
of a man, that
I have dustbin
should be as tall
as my tube socks.
I asked last night if my character
was your father. You turned your face
toward the screen.
Dillon J. Welch has a BA in English from the University of New Hampshire. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Gargoyle, Word Riot, & Red Lightbulbs, among others. Find out more about him here: http://embellishthelawnmower.wordpress.com.