Mother said: “always smile”
I am still smiling among others of my kind
In clusters of wrinkled cheeks and memory-laden souls
Beating too too many taut drums in a row.
“When I’m that way” my father used to say,
“shoot me. Doesn’t matter who has to clean up.”
My way is a nap turning into eternal rest.
December 5, 2013
we didn’t shoot my father.