Lately I’ve sat here afternoons
just listening to the
gluttonous newsmen argue

about fathers who kill
their wives and kids
then spirit off to Mexico.

My life’s knee-deep
in fathers, embedded
in my own shaky tenor,

and though mine’s as good as dead
my life still wakes up and pees.
My world’s still on fire.

If I could be anywhere else
in the world, if I could be anything
but ham-handed today, I could cheer on

the vacationing comedian
who finds one this morning
hidden in a hut.

I could be vindicated.
What I mean is all this father-surrendering
gets me tired,

that it’s getting old,
that it’s the most difficult part of my day.

Analysis, meaning and summary of Daniel Nester's poem Suspicious Minds

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