the year dad died

Dad took us to his favorite highway attraction once a year
He told us it was the reason he had us at all
And we weren’t sure what he meant by that
But he was happy
Staring at a pile of rancid meat
Impregnating the grass it flaccidly laid on in a neglected median
He’d point to the flies and say they reminded him of his dad
Or laugh at particularly oxidized pieces
Or cry if the weather were just right
And sometimes buy souvenirs from a man
Dying of alcoholism who didn’t seem to have any affiliation with the meat itself
But dutifully stood at the rotting altar we chose to worship at

We’d laugh along with him
Or cry depending on if we had tears to give
Because the rest of the year was silence
And the noises stirred the flies
And their shit covered legs helped us sleep

He’d add a few quarters in a rusted can
And say it was a preservation fund
Though the mound seemed to shrink every year
And dad seemed to know it
That despite his donation that was never collected
What he loved most
Was losing

We wondered why he didn’t do more
But didn’t ask
Because we knew he didn’t have more to give

We eventually got busy
And stopped going

And dad never really talked about that time in our lives
When he passed
We went to that median
And the meat was gone
And we liked to think he brought it with him
But knew he would have wanted it to stay
In the highway median