daddy

she was nearing sixty,
but she still liked
to call her father
daddy in a sweet
little girl like voice,
as syrupy as melted candy.
daddy this, daddy that.
and he was
her daddy. each divorce
was met with
cash or check, a
new car when the wine
spilled
her into a pole.
another house
close by to daddy
when the old one became
ruined with dogs
and men,
and the wayward
children, inked up
and drifting
bleary eyed through
school after school
as he picked
up the tabs of
their ambivalent
existence. daddy, oh,
daddy, why are you
so good to me,
she'd say as he drifted
into senility,
forgetting her name.
oh sweet daddy,
she'd say putting a
pen into his hand
to write another check
to save herself again.