Tirement

My father drives a bus now,
Tips his hat to those midnight vultures,
Circling and waiting for death.

The road gets narrow as the bus rattles,
Struggling in the moonlight.

If only failure had feelings enough to taste hatred,
My life might sustain itself heartily
On that poisonous road between us.

In our dreariness, my father mistakes
The sun for the moon,
Once in - then out of - sight,
A distant light, peering through the fog.

He picks me up
But does not know my name.