It was difficult having breakfast with Dad
the morning after the night he was boozing it up
with Brian and Todd,
laughing and talking loud in the front yard at 2:00 am,
the neighbours telling them to shut up and go to bed.
How Dad offered Brian and Todd the couches to sleep on
but Brian decided to drive anyway,
backing his truck out of the driveway halfway
into the ditch across the road,
fitting the truck so perfectly between two sign posts
that he didn’t even scratch it,
a feat he couldn’t have done sober,
even with the greatest of care.
Brian got out of the ditch easily enough and sped home;
then Dad tossed the football to Todd in the dark,
but Todd didn’t see it coming,
and the ball hit his bottle of beer
as he was taking a sip,
the impact chipping his tooth.
And how my Dad laughed when he saw that gap in Todd’s smile,
which caused Todd to start frickin’ and frackin’ about it all,
and then the neighbours were really fed up
and threatened to call the police
if Dad and Todd didn’t shut the fuck up.
Dad usually made breakfast,
but I cooked the eggs because he was hungover,
even though I’d never cooked eggs before.
Dad gagged on them,
but he kept them down.
And then he asked me if I could take my bicycle to my soccer game
because he was too sick to drive,
and I said, “Sure thing, Dad.”