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