This past summer I wrote this poem “Your Father.” Something’s being bothering me about it ever since then, but I haven’t been able to put my finger on it. Last night I realized it needed a second stanza to complete it. So here’s the new version:

When I told
your father
your old house
had burned down
he said, “Huh”
as if I
had simply
mentioned the
time of day.

He’s probably
still pissed off
about that
time when you
were ten and
you pulled that
shotgun on
him and said,
“Get out now.”