A heartless bastard
Is what I called him
When his feet hit the floor.
He headed out to his dirty blue pick-up
Where he’d already thrown
His army duffel bag
Filled with his flannel shirts
Marlboro cigarettes (“What a real man smokes, son”)
Leatherman knife
And his compass.
My mother’s tears stained the kitchen linoleum.
She asked him not to go
And I said he was
A heartless bastard and
Don’t come around here anymore
Or I’ll kill you.
Those were the last words I said to him.
He walked out the door
Taking my youth with him.
He drove off into the burning Mohave landscape.
I watched from our porch
And spat on the ground where his boots had tread.
I was nine years old
And more of a man
Then he would ever be.
by Cail Judy
May 2009
Photo from history class blog
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