Dad

Yesterday, was three years

since I counted your last breaths.

I tried to post about it, but didn’t.

I thought of the summer before college.

I was going to walk across America

with a staff I carved from a sapling and

kept behind the door of my room.

I was going to listen to American stories

until I grew deaf and return home to write a book

“Now is not the time,” you said

“The world is drawing back into itself.”

“Go to school for a year and then decide.”

I don’t get back home much.

I went to your gravesite once;

you weren’t there. Only bouquets of

dead flowers told the world someone cares.

You’d laugh, because now I buy Carol

bouquets of cut flowers from the grocery

I still hate dead flowers, but

Carol likes bright colors and

I like to see her smile

I’d like to sit and talk with you

about this crazy president.

Watch you turn red,

the vein on your temple pulse.

Listen as you curse this “spoiled rich bastard.”

If I told you about his COVID response and

his bromance with Putin,

you’d get up from your chair and say

“Come on, Tippy, let’s go for a walk.”

Some nights, I think it’s not too late

to walk across America or

drive a car or ride the Greyhound,

listen to stories about our people,

post videos and maybe, write that damn book.

10-24-20