Last night my father was chain-smoking with Whitney Houston 
In his underwear on a bed 
On the stage of a grand theater

Filled with dried flowers and relics 
Dilapidated plaster dust-clouds          diffusing  
Hot tears searing my face 
I’m running from him 
He told me he was omnipresent 
I told him he is not God 
Thick clouds of smoke repleted;
Choking my lungs 
I chased him out into a room with no exit
Whitney turned to me and said

“Why are you worried about all this smoke in a theater 
                                    this large 
                                                             that’s rotting anyway? 
Why are you trying to save this 
                                                                                                               piece of shit?”