red flower

my father burst a vein
deep inside the gray mud
he used to sling
in graveled slugs of leaden words
that slipped between the surviving teeth
and the cigar that filled ages
with its dank fumes
but never seemed to burn
except for the holes
in his clothes, polyester blends -
his battle scarred shirts
carried the ash
of every hazy dive
he'd ever tipped a glass in

did he see the tear
the splash of quick red
that bloomed in his left eye
caught between blinks
his vision fixed by will
his frame clenched
in his wicker chair

the chipped wreck groaned
with imperceptible strain
his flask
an accident of steel in his left hand
his worn boots in his right
silent.
still.
he watched the crimson trees break
like waves in the wind