Blueberry Pie

My dad and I have
blueberry pie on Sunday
afternoons

we meet in the lobby
of Chateau Marmont
and intertwine our
lanky arms to form
a pretzel-shaped hug

we won’t get much
closer than that
not in words or touch
or breath and I do admit,
I desire
sometimes
to tell him –

he kisses hello
a needle-thin blonde
who plucks a blueberry from my plate
and my eyes escape the ruinous
site of broken pastry
and stolen fruit but
outside is even less
promising as the
afternoon drizzle
drips down
like a runny nose

and as I do
after every Sunday
I light up, smoke up
and tell myself to
shut up as I patch together
a father of sorts, from these
blueberry afternoons