Wrote this a couple years back, thinking about Dad and me and my boys, edited lately, Facebook didn't seem like a good place to post
Ahh, Dad
Oh, the koshka interrupts
And the purr and maginki distract and make the eyelids heavy
Perhaps teasing out a hair knot from our captive pet -- maybe,
It's more noble
Than beery odes
But indulgence must ...
Why, so late blooming?
Why finally the muscles go lean
Why the fibers suddenly so honed?
It's too late, right?
The spring fields, they were shorn and fallow,
Long ago, right?
It's late innings.
The babe was kiss'd by Grampa and Grandma,
Well Grampa is now ashes, even if we can feel the texture of his hair on our own son's head between our own fingers,
It's too, so, long ago.
So,
Why, Nature,
Why do you tease, prod, goad,
Or taunt us
With unanticipated vigor,
Of lean, or latent and integrated but unallocated potential?
Is this only an Indian Summer,
A golden hiatus in my slow ebb,
Or my pissed-off slouch,
To decline?
...
Are your electric kisses true or compensatory?
Sympathetic, yes, you assume I'm spent?
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