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.
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