They call him Goat to this day. I do too.
Nor-cal born and raised.
I don’t begrudge him and my Mom
getting together to call me Syl.
Sometimes he would leave
weeks at a time, riding freight trains
in between cars of hydrofluoric acid and diapers.
I imagined him with a bandana hanging off a stick.
He’s eventually return to my mom raising hell
about other women.
“Train Tramps” She’d call them.
I cowered in my room one night as they fought.
“What the fuck are we supposed to do while you trounce around by
train, town to town!”
She grabbed his ratty shirt, “Goat!”. Shaking him.
She tried to find sense in his face.
“This is what happens when you don’t take your medication!”
I learned to look forward to the smell of boos and railroads.
Sometimes he would return with things I cherish to this day.
He brought me a snuff box I keep earrings in.
“What would a 9 year old need a snuff box for?”
I asked myself some years later.
The trains finally got the better of him,
and he bled to death between El Paso and Dallas.