2005. The father watches his new baby sleep, marveling at his perfect little face, his fat little fingers, the way he sucks on his pacifier automatically. He feels pure love, never suspecting that this fresh miracle of an infant will, in 11 years, write him this poem for Father’s Day:
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Your farts stink
And you know it, too.
Happy Father’s Day!
HA! Remind me at the next writer’s group to share a poem Bill wrote me one Valentine’s Day.
It’s a keeper but not fit for public consumption.
I WILL remind you…and I can’t wait!