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A poem for my old men.

13 July 2013


I called my father
and he was happy I did.

He didn’t believe it wasn’t Thursday,
asked me the day and date three times,
and told me he was just sorting through the mail
which the audit said had robbed him
of seven thousand dollars in a year.

I told him I was writing a software project
which would remind him of the day and date
and send him interesting photos and news items
through a special printer.

I was proud.

He concluded that the weather was bullshit,
and thanked me profusely
as always
for calling.

I sat and I smoked
and after a moment I lay down on the bed
to think.

You came with cautious assurance,
and settled your painful old bones
akimbo at every joint
on the pile of blankets next to me.

You offered your love in licks
like a dog might.

“My favorite old man,” I said
my eyes and fingers noting for the thousandth time
that small black patch of fur in a white sea
clearly broken off the adjoining continent
much like Madagascar.

I thought about adopting older cats in the future
as my father went back to his junk mail
a whole continent away.

July 13, 2013


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