* a poem for my late Dad.

Funny what we remember.

Some old vaudvellian shtick,

my father recovered it

from the dust,

and brought it back to me

from his childhood.

I shuddered with laughter on his lap

visions of fat ladies, puffed-up geezers

bearing their rears.

 I was deep in the creases

of my father's

craggy love--

those eyes

those wise

slits of penetrating blue.

The lines on his face-

my fingers traced their grooves

the rough, weathered

surface of his cheek.

And sometimes

I can feel his fingers

on my face

I hold his hand

and we begin to

trace.