Sean Lause

With permission of Mr. Westinghouse Electric...

My father
worked in a factory
for Westinghouse Electric,
forty-seven years,
never regretted a day,
never remembered a week.

One night,
he found a company phone
unguarded.
Each night,
he'd call me up long distance.

He'd tell me about his father
who ditched him when he was nine,
with a pat on the head
and a"Be good to your mother"
and sent post cards now and then
from towns so obscure
even the graveyards cry to get out.

He'd tell me about his mother,
who once grabbed his penis
in the bath
and said: "This will get you in trouble some day,"
and who died with a communion wafer
in her mouth.

And there were countless others,
an eternity of betrayal
and lies,
a traveling circus of freaks and whipmasters
who spun his dreams out netless on the wire
to watch them tumble like drunken clowns.

And all I could do was nod
and affirm the injustice
and say I know, I know,
when I did not know
and could never know,
and squeeze the cord like a black snake in my hand.

One night,
the company found out what he'd been doing.
They asked him not to do it again.
And he didn't.