Come on, Emily, tell us what you really think.
(Originally published February 1, 2007)
A couple of points before you read the poem:
1. This poem is not about my own father.
2. Men aren’t born inherently worthless, it’s just that a few work their whole lives to see how close they can come.
Now on with the poem I turned in today…
Drinks carbonated rage from aluminum cans.
Squeezes salty drops of self-pity from vacant eyes.
Waits for a medal.
Curses at Howie Mandel from his La-Z-Boy.
Orders his eggs over easy, makes compassion hard.
Thinks he’s Dad of the Year.