Peter A. Witt
Bio Note: I am a Texas poet, avid birder/photographer, and researcher/writer of family history. I started writing poetry after 42 years as a university professor as a way of recapturing my storytelling and creative writing abilities, skills I'd lost in the stultifying world of academic writing. My work has appeared in several online poetry publications including Fleas on the Dog, Open Skies Quarterly, and Active Muse.
When We Argue About Nothing
I. Words can hurt just like the slap of a flagrant hand, both can be healed with a gentle brushing of lips. II. I see your point even if I don't understand why being right is so damn important. III. I'd rather argue about how many cows are in the pasture than what country deserves our next vacation. IV. You mother said you hate to lose, I hate to win. V. Making up isn't as much fun as making love for no good reason. V. My apology is a sorry excuse for not listening.
The phone call spilled tears of grief at your passing but also memories of our time together when I was young and you would take me to the beach, hold my hand while the waves tickled my toes; I would giggle as you'd pick me up and nuzzle my neck, then lead me on a chase of sandpipers pecking at the water's edge. I remember how you took me to school my first day of kindergarten, told me to be a big boy and eat the peanut butter sandwich you'd tenderly made and not pull anyone's hair...you were there to walk me home when the final bell rang and listened to me babble all the way home about the three goldfish in the aquarium and the girl with blond hair who sat next to me, hair that I remembered not to pull. Years later I remember how you cried when I introduced you to a woman with long blond hair who I whispered I planned to marry someday, how my bride to be remembered me as the boy from school who never pulled her hair. I remember the last time I visited, your voice weak, your hands frail, as you asked about my blond-haired wife, our three children, and our dog, a golden, who you used to take for walks on the beach so he could chase sandpipers.
©2023 Peter A. Witt
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