My Dad
He drank too much at parties
And his antics roused the crowd.
His pitching arm was famous
And a strikeout made him proud.
He worked too many hours
Selling kids’ and ladies’ shoes;
Then he watched a game on Sunday
When one beer would make him snooze.
When waking him, you had to poke
Then jump out of the way;
In sleep, he was in World War II,
With enemies at bay.
The slightest thing would make him gag –
From blood down to a worm.
A baby spitting up would be
Enough to make him squirm.
He hated being late and so
Was early as could be.
I smile at this, for just as well,
This is describing me.
Apologies were not his thing
But if he’d blown his stack,
A visit to my room to chat
Would get us back on track.
He dreamed of his retirement
In Florida some day,
Convinced he’d win the lottery
He so much loved to play.
My father was a funny guy.
He’s thirty-two years gone;
But in my heart, his handsome face
Forever will smile on.
for Richard Tarr's contest
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