The Stranger in Seattle

Sometimes I think I see him still,

in his old white Benz,

blasting rap like he used to.


Sometimes I think he will find us again,

even though we’ve moved out

and changed our numbers.


Sometimes there’s a part of me

that wants to call him up and

tell him I know why he was so angry-

that I forgive him for everything,

but another part of me

cannot help but still be angry

at him.


Sometimes I wish I could go to Seattle

and see if there is something there

that breeds sadness in people like him.

I want to know why he ran back there

after everything.


Sometimes I still see the hard lines of his face

in strangers I see on the street.

I have to fight the urge to run over to them

and ask why

everything reminds me of those four years

that his anger infiltrated our house,

why I still see him in my dreams:

the green bottle that was always in his hand,

the brown cloves always hanging from his mouth.


Sometimes I find myself hating

everything I know he loved.

I can never sit in a white Benz,

or watch the Superman movies,

or visit that one beach he always forced us to go to.


Sometimes I wish he had never existed,

or never been brought into my life,

but I know

I would not be the person

I am today

without him.

This poem is about: 
My family


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