A Mythological Autobiography of a Wolf, poetry

Father,

Blunt and Fact
are the first two words which come to mind.
A massive Hercules,
its four propellers cutting through air and cloud,
brings home the loud drunken voice
complaining to the dark.
Little by little the world rose up
and drowned you.

My wild unfortunate proud father,
between the drops of rain
which perforated the sky
you stood not allowed to dance.

They couldn’t tame you
So they put you in a cage.
Your first crime, however,
was being an ‘Indian.’
It was a daily happening
which groaned through your blood.
That inferno is scarcely gone.
It gazes back at me
through the rear-view mirror.

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