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.