dad's painting

The rolled, crinkled canvas
had once been stapled to a man's wall
his room an old chapel
with chapel seating around the room
dishes living in the sink for weeks
one box of takeout in the fridge
this day has alot of meaning
I discover the pain seeping in and out
up and down
throughout his eyes
I can't cry
I can only look at the tall grass outside the "chapel" window
He hides
like I would one day hide
He runs
like I would one day run
He lies
like I would one day lie
this painting, rolled up and tied down
in my closet
holds the past in it's black and red lips
stapled to my brain
I can't shake his room
from my brain
that painting that hangs on my wall
as of today
brings me back to a church parking lot with roller skates
blue shorts, pink shirt, hair that refused to be brushed
a girl searching for adventure in a small bed of grass and buttercup flowers
the man with the canvas would never be the father he needed to be
just a bloke who couldn't understand how to love
how to feel someone else's pain
or know his little girl wanted to sit on daddy's lap
or have him tell her the way of the world
this chair beckons for me to turn the other way
change the music
tear down that memory
and shove it back to the bottom of that box
suffocating truth, and lies , tears that would stream and dance down my face
just forget those blackened lips
blue lines slashing across canvas
this story has no end
no real beginning
just shades of colors
dancing on paper
trying to find their way
just like me