173.

No, I do not miss my father.
It has been twenty-four years
and I remember little.
Waiting for me
at the bottom of the stairs,
a bridge, a car veering
off the road and settling
gently into a ditch.
But other intricacies,
like his voice? I try,
but the images come up mute.

No, I do not miss him.
But because of this, such feelings
are compounded and stumble
all over the other men I meet.
There is no grace in this.
No way to talk about it
without feeling crazy.
I worry that all this time
I've been trying to find him.
I do not need anyone,
but I would like
to be safe.