Poem for Dad

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.