coming clean
Posted: September 24th, 2011, 9:20 am
I came out of the closet today
finally told my family,
I write poetry
my mother briefly clutched her chest
dad said, " Do you believe those
lousy Yankees ?"
and it was over
no need for further discussion
and certainly not more details
after such a shocking confession
they would need time to catch
their collective breath, time
to process this startling revelation
these folks of mine
with no bookcases in this house
where I was raised, the parents
with no books
oh sure, there were a couple
of Zane Grey paperbacks tucked
in the corner of dad's wardrobe
but they were not book people
they were TV Guide people
could pretty near recite the weekly
shows like one might recite
The Gettysburg Address
and only liked american things
like sports and Miller Lite, they were
the elite of snowball stands
but books, particularly poetry books
were for weirdos and gay people
and people that didn't respect
the flag, shiftless protesters
troublemakers, muckrakers, and
goody-two-shoes
daddy once said, "writin' stuff ain't no job"
I think he meant career, he couldn't believe
there were actually people writing down
their "little rhymes" while he was fighting
" the god damned Germans" and no one
in our lineage had ever been a writer
or heaven forbid, a poet, they were all
workers that built this god damn country
so we nodded and pretended like always
acted though nothing was said, and mom
asked if I could stay for dinner, and dad
yelled from the other room, " that idiot
couldn't hit the broadside of a barn with
a baseball if his fucking life depended on it!"
and I said under my breath,
"nice to see you guys"
slipped out unnoticed
finally told my family,
I write poetry
my mother briefly clutched her chest
dad said, " Do you believe those
lousy Yankees ?"
and it was over
no need for further discussion
and certainly not more details
after such a shocking confession
they would need time to catch
their collective breath, time
to process this startling revelation
these folks of mine
with no bookcases in this house
where I was raised, the parents
with no books
oh sure, there were a couple
of Zane Grey paperbacks tucked
in the corner of dad's wardrobe
but they were not book people
they were TV Guide people
could pretty near recite the weekly
shows like one might recite
The Gettysburg Address
and only liked american things
like sports and Miller Lite, they were
the elite of snowball stands
but books, particularly poetry books
were for weirdos and gay people
and people that didn't respect
the flag, shiftless protesters
troublemakers, muckrakers, and
goody-two-shoes
daddy once said, "writin' stuff ain't no job"
I think he meant career, he couldn't believe
there were actually people writing down
their "little rhymes" while he was fighting
" the god damned Germans" and no one
in our lineage had ever been a writer
or heaven forbid, a poet, they were all
workers that built this god damn country
so we nodded and pretended like always
acted though nothing was said, and mom
asked if I could stay for dinner, and dad
yelled from the other room, " that idiot
couldn't hit the broadside of a barn with
a baseball if his fucking life depended on it!"
and I said under my breath,
"nice to see you guys"
slipped out unnoticed