I just realized it is poetry month and it's almost over
and my father's birthday, his life which at times was iambic pentameter
and free verse
blank verse and a few quatrains here and there
confessional poetry seemed to be sorely lacking
no haiku
muddied and bloodied boots in Europe
coming home to middle class existence
with a few colored TVs and in wall air
conditioners
The love of his life gone for two years
the colored TV his friend that doesn't talk back
and hard of hearing anyway
although he puts the radio on when he goes to sleep
and is ready to go
