i (still) owe her ten bucks

father one introduced me to father three
several years ago
father three has for nine years told me
several stories of anti
and I respect father one
and I respect father three

I hear them speaking in the next room
where the lights are dim and their voices
dimmer and their expressions hang
flagrant chandeliers grim and their voices
grimmer when the lights of passing cars hang
on unsettled dust in the air and their voices

calloused mustard are the fingertips worn
and appreciated by the spoon dipped further
in my throat and down the stairs to where
rests my pieces and pieces and she twists
and pulls back cupfuls of this dark stuff, worn
and waiting to reassemble what I’d taken

father three sings all weary melody
he has now for several years crowing of anti
barbiturates and February are r’s rarely
pronounced but you must to read such a line
finely ground, easily absorbed in the nasal
cavity and the dirty dollar bill; his name is Fagen

rather, father three is much the father anti