Naomi's Mom and Dad

When mom, Naomi, was your mom not quite, she was a barista at the Starbucks just blocks away from where your thunderstruck dad used to curse the name whose will to write mistreated sonnets never metered right. In those days, my daughter, a word like schmuck would suit your father, quite determined luck, not talent lacked, should bear the blame for shame that came from lameness littered kiddy rhyme. But, with each finished turd, your dad (undeterred) would march to Starbucks like he’d made a name, and talk to mom, who taught me, overtime, love and beauty’s praise are sonnets’ preferred.