Russian fathers

They talk on screen as though to state their
case of loss, boys and their turns at jumping,
scaring life out of tall scaffolds, not meant
to rappel down to lakes, freezing with absence.
This try will go down into history as breaking
silence and sleeping sheets, scarred with wonder.

We'll take a ride to fishing poles and set about
the trip with hate and beating walls, bricks of
Russia, weathered with years, rough with hope
in mothers, handling moats, swimming across
to a couch filled with blue, blue dust of furnaces,
guarding warmth and ash.

It stops without warning and slowing, churns
to listing, ready for the morning at east with
daring balls, blasting across the pike, to another
staring contest, waiting for embers of hate to die.
It's in the backseat, drenched, dying with galacial
pastimes, refreshing this lie.

Always you are welcome, but beware of elegant
daggers, slaying about the hardwood, a favorite
of this copying father, as Lucy makes her way
onto the screen, cool as every, she pouts to nearly
winner awards, slowly it recedes to nothing.
But always welcome to be forgotten, you were hardly
here when the dinner was trashed.

Cackling outside with fake Russian mobsters in
Norway or Sweden, with frayed budgets hemoraging
actors in pace with a decade or two, taking turns to
read titles substituting for life, for this curse of
quality, the raw wood, the dank life of childlessness,
almost a cigarette of emotion, it emboldens Vodka
and a motherland meant for young boys.

© 2015 Larry Ingram