A reply to a poem by Roy Bentley

Bastard

Being fatherless and, by definition, a bastard,
my sad father had annunciatory balloon clouds
attached to his communications on any given day.

I have seen the single-tear at the corner of one eye
after someone praises Fatherhood or he’s been privy
to locker room towel-snapping or the one-upmanship

of men who grill burgers under fleetingly cerulean sky,
roughhousing language into its use as a tool to separate.
So what if he was a bastard. I’m not excusing collateral

damage he inflicted on others, but he was a romantic
so and so. His mother was institutionalized for firing
at his biological father with a forty-five automatic—

story goes, she was reloading when a hand reached
for her hand then for the gun. I hear soft, Southern-
accented tones, the sheriff counseling nonviolence,

the laying down of arms. Like in a B-movie where
someone trusts in one desperate act to settle things
which will never be settled in this life or any other.

Copyright (c) 2016 Roy Bentley. All rights reserved.

What of this gal,
who had the wherewithal to rack a forty five,
and the will to line up the sights on his forehead--

Was she surprised when the gun leapt at that first shot
(which went wide, like the succeeding eight)--
or did it bring back memories of her father, or some brother, 
or maybe some earlier boyfriend, standing behind her--
his arms enveloping her and steadying her own would be lethal hands--
Squeeze it, don’t jerk it BLAM thata girl!

We all know he had it coming,
but then how could she miss in nine tries?
And anyway, what lessons could she teach him,
by blowing out his brains?