Men like Monty

I went to a bar a few weeks ago—

party of me, myself, and I.

It was the Friday before Father’s Day.

Over the clicks and clanks of shot glasses,

the man introduced himself as Monty.

He made a toast to his party,

“Happy Father’s Day, brothers--

Y’all know we deserve this one.”

Monty strikes me as gracious, kind, hardworking—

a dad who keeps promises and stores school photos in his wallet.

It’s such a shame that I hate him.

And anyone else that makes me question

how different life could have been

had you been sober long enough to be like Monty.

Had Monty been able to raise his glass without reminding me

of each time you told me I was going to drive you to drink again

if I asked any more questions. If I repeated the things you told me.

Men like Monty are supposed to make me miss you.

But they remind me that I have nothing to miss.

I’ve accepted that you died long before your death—

I grieved you most before you passed.

As I watched your body gradually become a home

for addiction to move through:

room by room, organ by organ.

Demolishing all the bones

until you were gone,

and I was left to resent men like Monty.