Violet Bathroom Dictator

He is the violet
Bathroom dictator; king of the plastered
Hairspray combover.

He is fall
October turning chill at 10:09 p.m.; a smoldering 
Ruin, abandoned house burnt.

He is tornadic 
Aftermath, roiling clouds receding;
Waxing solar eclipse.

He is a prickly
Brown weed foisted into the wind;
Injured porcupine.

He is a stagnant
Tidal pool; A sargassum-clogged beach 
After man o’ war arrive.

He is a rusted
’74 green Impala; A worn
Holy-soled shoe.

He is a stillborn
Merengue; A ridgeless guiro
Missing its rhythm stick.

He is a bruised
Rotting Mango – Acrid 
Espresso in the Little Havana heat.

“It doesn’t matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.”

— Anne Sexton