The Antifather
by Sabrina Dawkins
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“He’s the same,” I thought.
Beer smokes off clothes into air.
He waited till sun
started sinking to ask.
No light to expose wrinkles.
“Where you from?” he asked
as he creeped towards me
comforted by the sheet of dim.
No wisdom in his hands,
nor hello to a friend.
He desired a date with a stranger.
“Easy prey,” he thought.
He couldn’t see my eyes,
as the darkness he trusted betrayed him.
Had he seen them glow,
he at once would’ve known
my youth was only a façade.
They fixed on him
like a key in a lock,
burrowing deep inside
and discovering a lack.
Over 50 years on earth
and he still hadn’t known
age gaps should be heeded.
“You’re not my age,” I said,
curt and angry in tone.
But I thought,
“Wish you could’ve been a father.”