Wednesday, August 3, 2016

August 3

We're writing after poems all month long.


1 comment:

  1. After Ted Kooser “father”

    Dad! I’m living in your home state! I loved you, hated you, loved you, spun back towards hate and now I just don’t know what to do with you at all. We had nothing in common except our height and large nose. Our surprisingly dainty feet. You lost your job at 50. Never worked again, but keep on sneaking into all those private ivy league clubs, til one broke down and made you a member. You should have been happier. You said as much, but couldn’t turn the corner onto bliss. You were a terrible racist, although I’m not sure that a wonderful racist would look and talk any different. You cried at tv shows. Such a strange combination of sentimentality and rage. I think you did the best you could. Do I miss you? Sometimes. Sometimes not. For instance, the days I’m grateful you’re not around to tell me why Trump is not as bad as Clinton. Although your leftist granddaughter says that. And that’s just. Weird. You died the day after her birthday — which was in its own strange way — considerate of you.

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