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A poem about my dad
Father’s Day and once again I recall
How my father would come home after work and just fall
Into his chair that big one dark green
Then with careful detail paint his day in a scene
There was one evening habit my daddy lived by
Only one little drink of his favorite Redeye
He would pour it into that old short etched glass
The one with the logo from his college class
He sipped it down slowly no reason to rush
It made his cheeks pink with the slightest blush
A sigh said it all as he finished that drink
Repeating the same words without having to think
“What ends the workday better than this,
the kiss of a whisky on my dry old lips!”
How can I forget what he left behind
Those moments of joy that fondly remind
What fathers are made of and what they believed
No matter the task he would roll up his sleeves
There was never a moment I can ever recall
My dad did not do the right thing for us all
So when I get home from my day full of tasks
I reach for the Redeye and that old college glass
I think of those words my father would say
And know he is sharing the end of my day.
— WOLRAD
(A poem from the Wolrad collection #345)
