Oh father,
what glib stories you did tell -
The Man Who Farted Songs!
The Penny Through a Skull
when dropped from the top
of Empire State -
where once you hung suspended
afraid to fall
from your father's grasp.
When I was your small child
there was
no pretense of the large mysteries -
no Santa Claus,
no Jesus Christ,
but smaller miracles:
The Birthday Puppies!
Green Lantern's Dashlight!
The Psychic Bullets!
The Rats Who Ate the Paint
and left bright turds
of rainbow hues -
viridian footballs,
alizarin crimson,
ultramarine.
The Garden Which Grew
On Its Own Accord!
Baby corn, sugar peas,
honeydews.
Those childhood illusions
more cherished than
the Easter Bunny,
more precious than
the Burning Bush.
Twelve years until I realized
you planted those seeds -
the furrowed earth,
my mother's womb,
my own imagination.
Some gifts I would return:
the awkward gait,
the squinting eyes,
that gene for sloth,
but one I've kept
close.
I hang suspended
from my father's grasp,
about to float free.
Unfettered by truth.
Open to
the world's illusions.
From STORYTELLING
