Dad Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

He slept the dream of ethanol
and when he woke, his battered soul
was in a mood too foul to bear
as vomit stuck in his gray hair.
There in the gutter where he lay
in awe of yet another day.

By-passers did what they have done
for generations. People run
from something seemingly askew
they all have better things to do.

Two blood-shot eyes, deprived of care
can, if required, beat the glare
of solar early morning bragging
as purple bags, resigned to sagging
do complement this alley bum
there, in the gutter with his rum.

She stepped, fresh ginger in her heels,
around the Salvos' stern appeals,
took two crisp banknotes from her purse
when from the sidewalk came a curse.

Blue eyes hop-skipped onto the ground
to find the voice that made this sound.
Much static electricity
now filled the air for all to see.

His eyes were locked onto her breasts
like horny, uninvited guests.
To break the atmosphere of shame
she held the note out 'what's your name? '

He answered, spitting as he spoke
'My girl, you have observed I'm broke.
But all the rum in old Spokane
has not destroyed my inner man.'

And then, it fell, like dandruff flakes
from deep blue eyes and long-lost aches:
This unkempt bum, red-eyed and sad
now held her hand. 'I am your DAD.'