My dad wore the ugliest ties on Sundays.
On other days, he donned
guayaberas the colors of Easter eggs.
"Fisty, flatty, cutty, cutty or claw?"
Gotcha birds and little lambies.
Palabras y cuentos for miles,
a sweaty bottle of RC Cola on the hot dash.
Drop in some salty peanuts and listen to these tall tales:
A Gila monster, a monkey,
a burro and a farm.
A father, an uncle, an airplane too bound to the earth.
A marriage.
Then another one.
And another one.
And another one.
This storybook does not close.
It is not time for bed.
It was never a book anyway,
limited by linen, board and paste.
Dad’s stories were meant to be spoken,
with voice and gesture;
living things, evolving, mutating with each telling.
There will be more stories.
Then more stories.
And more stories.
And more stories.
Cherubs will sit, naked and still;
Angels will pause, rapt disbelievers;
Seraphim will smile knowingly, faith in a preordained punch
line.
Heaven will get no work done.
