Vas-o-con-stric-tion, sing to me O muse!
Make tight like vises these opening veins,
as strong conviction when been disabused.
Send light you upon my unthinking brains!
Just right. So take ye now a writer’s pains
enditing such unsightly addiction;
make light of it not, nor feign restriction,
only write thyself in thine depiction.
What do you taste in that he would ask
My daughter blames my father,
for everything she learned in preschool–
when he was her babysitter–
about bourbon
and the world.
He had suffered a stroke at age 61
after he retired to fish for the rest of his life.
He was her teacher from his lift chair
where he kept his bottle of sipping whiskey
down and out of sight.
He would take out his bottle and take a sip.
Then he would have her take a sip.
Then he would ask her to spit it out
and tell him what she tasted.
She got better each year.
When she left home to work with
Wolfgang Puck in his Chicago restaurant,
She leaned how a chef cooked.
When Wolfie, as she called him divorced,
his wife took him for half of his restaurants.
My daughter went to New York
to enter a contest, judging spirits.
Of the also 900 entrants,
she won the contest
and the grand prize, a trip.
She was sent to Australia to visit
vineyards there, all expenses paid.
She came back to the USA
and got certified to judge spirits.
She designs bar and stocks them by tastes.
She became the only woman to judge bourbon.
She mixes age barrels of bourbon and mixes tequila.
She still blames my father for all her successes.
She takes his skill with her
All over the world.
Who says cupcakes aren’t a breakfast food?
Finger friendly, same ingredients as floppy flapjacks.
Only oatmeal eaters and other such flaxy prudes
would claim cupcakes can’t be a breakfast food.
Neither frosted nor sprinkled, banana muffins look nude
on a plate, particularly to the preschooler who wisely cracks:
But, MomMom, cupcakes are breakfast food!
They’re a lot more funner than flappyjacks!
wheels twist underneath
slipping you down dream roads
past fields, distilleries, river cities
away west (or east, your choice)
hum and roar hum and roar
a companion duller than most, but
companion all the same
to thoughts of where been
where going
journey
destination
objective
purpose
there being
a stubbly silhouette
fills the headrest
beside me in the sky
I have one eye
absorbing my novel
one eye concocting
the backstory
of the serial snacker
who types questionnaires
to feed the bots
so they recognize their brethren
among baskets
of applicants
but are the clouds bothered
by this carbon fiber
high five
The funeral home will send you a template.
Date of birth, of marriage, of death.
surviving spouse, children, grandchildren.
Donations to be made to (name your cause).
Why not remember instead how much
Mom loved waking up to the quiet whisper
of trees surrounding an Adirondack lake.
The joy in Dad’s smile as he held
his great grandson before his failing
mind deleted every memory.
The miracle wasn’t
five never-ending, always rising sourdough loaves
(Judas would’ve insisted on a patent)
or
two never-souring, always frying saltwater filets
(Peter and Andrew would’ve smelled something fishy)
or
splitting the check five thousand ways
(God bless the waiter about to receive a 13% tip)
The miracle was getting that many people to all care about each other,
all at once.
Walking through the store right now
feels like a thousand knives
carving my heart into pieces.
A mug reads Best Dad,
#1 Dad claims a plush finger.
Everywhere I look, a card, a T-shirt,
every end cap a reminder
that I no longer have a reason
to celebrate Father’s Day.
Love is a tiny 2 oz possum, held in the palm of my hand
So small and dependent, only me to help her grow now
Her mama gone, her siblings too, it’s just the two of us
We make it through somehow, some way; together
A learning curve so sharp it could cut through stone
But I am willing, and she has nothing but a desire to live
We made it, girl, all the way to the end and I swear to you
I never knew such love in my life, so pure, full, and joyful
It was wonderful and scary; it was everything all at once
Love is a possum, don’t you know, and if you didn’t, well
Now you do
