Dozens of fathers
are up in the trees
pointing and laughing
at the fathers
not fatherly enough
on the sidewalk below
even though the fathers
in the trees are dressed
like women and are
making woman-father
sounds and shooting pink lasers
from their eyes as they grumble 

sad father things.
While all the kids of the fathers
are in their houses
sucking their Gameboy screens
as 1994 dissolves
in their mouths
like Pop Rocks
as their mothers touch
all the colors
and take the colors away
with their hands,
rubbing the colors
onto their bodies
until all that’s left
are these blobs with mouths
cooing in the ecstasy
of what the color means
with all the fathers
being born inside them
like seeds in a pomegranate
or dreams in a jellyfish
as it begins raining fathers
into fathers outside;
a Tetris of fathers
filling the spaces
of where no father is.
Fathers upon fathers 
trying not to miss.