reading war of the worlds to my son
Justin Hyde

the first cylinder just landed.
it’s starting to open
but he’s more interested in
pulling on my beard with one hand
while playfully bashing the other
into the side of my face.
the first time i really wanted to take a shot
at my father
i was twelve years old.
he’d made mom cry
by coming home two days late
wearing a shirt
that didn’t smell like our house.
but i didn’t do it then
and i never did.
that would have shown him i cared
and i didn’t want to give
the satisfaction.
i press my index finger
against the tip of his nose.
make the beep sound that
brings a laugh.
i tell him
i hope
he’s got balls enough
to take his shot.

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