the year dad died

Dad took us to his favorite highway attraction once a year He told us it was the reason he had us at all And we weren’t sure what he meant by that But he was happy Staring at a pile of rancid meat Impregnating the grass it flaccidly laid on in a neglected median He’d point to the flies and say they reminded him of his dad Or laugh at particularly oxidized pieces Or cry if the weather were just right And sometimes buy souvenirs from a man Dying of alcoholism who didn’t seem to have any affiliation with the meat itself But dutifully stood at the rotting altar we chose to worship at We’d laugh along with him Or cry depending on if we had tears to give Because the rest of the year was silence And the noises stirred the flies And their shit covered legs helped us sleep He’d add a few quarters in a rusted can And say it was a preservation fund Though the mound seemed to shrink every year And dad seemed to know it That despite his donation that was never collected What he loved most Was losing We wondered why he didn’t do more But didn’t ask Because we knew he didn’t have more to give We eventually got busy And stopped going And dad never really talked about that time in our lives When he passed We went to that median And the meat was gone And we liked to think he brought it with him But knew he would have wanted it to stay In the highway median