Two PoemsMy Dad
He always had a thing
for frozen orphans,matchbook memories,
8 oz. martinis,
Adolph Hitler,
Johnny Cash –a voice crying
in the 2 a.m. wildernessbefore the dawn
of talk radio.He was my dad.
Plaid
for Susan WheelerOne day I’ll grow up
and when I do, I’ll be plaid.Autumnal and rapt
in the checkered tablecloths
of my clan’s checkered past,
present and future.Don’t get mad, get plaid!
Plain old plaid,
plaid plains of a universe
of interlocking
concentric squares.Even the water will be plaid.
Uniform and utilitarian,
far as the eye can see.