Words uncoil over lines, undernourished and infrequent.
The Sunday calls, sporadic now, mean more when we
Sneak in extra paragraphs about some oft-forgotten tune,
Long lost summer jams. Notes still float across to ears
But none can replace live tinkerings of familiar themes.

Bev drops a stealthy chord, Jim attempts Hayden’s, Gap
Or Doug or some bass saxophonist in doctor’s clothes,
Now playing clarinet, wonders why each song is in C .
Interpersonal miasma means Dad plays in C. On July
Fourth fit-boomers pop, exclaiming momentary freedom.

The kids get swept into adult parties, train rides, and the
Famous creepy crawlers-in-the-ice joke that got funnier
As the night wore on. It’s not easy living up to previous
Accomplishments, and Dad was the first one to cut a path
Away from the past. The expectations stopped with Dad.

He only nudges layabouts, does not fear distant shores,
Cleans the dishes, walks the dog, or chases the cat, and
Could hold a clinic on how to pack a box. How many
Dreams faded, how many came true? It’s Dad’s quest
For the good life we cherish. He has taught us well.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2002. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


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