The grass is crunchy beneath my feet,
is it natural?
Probably not. You would have to take time to garden for that to happen.
Why couldn't you pay attention?
I would still be here.

The concrete is cold beneath my feet,
like your heart?
No, the concrete is warmer.
Why is that?
I was all you had.

The rope is rough in my hand,
as I make the knots.
I still have the bruises you know.
The ones you made after Budweiser, Coors, and Natural.
Why couldn't you be like the other dads?
I lied.

The tree is bumpy where I tie the rope,
I'm not OK.
All the times you asked me.
Don't cry when you read this.
Why would you?
I'm a "Disgraceful Fagot" after all.

The chair is sturdy where I stand,
the Bible in my fucking hand,
I say the Lords prayer one last time,
before I make your Hate crime.
A solid tear falls down my cheek,
There you are standing by the creek.

You stagger and run,
for me?
Too late.
"No, Don't!"
You shout.

I kick the chair,
My neck snaps,
I gasp for air.

One last thing,
Blame yourself.
It is your fault.

Your son.