Life’s Little Misdirections 🥀🦋

Papa’s Hat

Papa’s getting ready to hang up his hat
for good. Naps in the green recliner
with the tv on
in his boxers
when a knock at his door
alerted him.

Pants off, the blue ball cap
on the nail, hooked for good.

In black nights he sleeps
all alone. No one to comfort him.
He could wear a frown, but
blooms rose from her oven. Soon
stern tulips waited for the delicate lilies
to rise with our eternal sun.

Papa never opened his eyes in late summer;
harmonious roses being plucked,
Chrysanthemums dared frost and snow.

He had no space to move, when
he felt something underground move.
From her delicate hand
a bright, light lid for a stern head.

No pajamas needed for this bed
where he could stretch limbs as long
as the willows that tickle toes across the street.

From brown to green to blue —
delicate and stern — they still fly,
higher than any eye could spy.

And that’s why we don’t touch
the old hat that needs it’s rest
in his very old house.


11.17.23
30, 37 or 38 lines. Take your pick. Or, 39?

It’s surreal, some literal, but all imagined
except for dad and his tv and recliner.
His left hand ran up the trimmed wall,
locked there, while his right cradled the cocked head,
asleep. Couldn’t change his channel, with a,
“I was watching that”, after opening blood eyes.
You need the right channel to rest.

No gas stove for us.

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Somewhere, a link just died. 40.