Fiesta Bowl on low.
My son lying here on the couch
on the 'Dad' pillow he made for me
in the Seventh Grade. Now a sophomore
...
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I didn't understand until I read Kim Barney's comment. I agree. I wonder what else I didn't understand.
I have never heard it described with such humor, beauty, solemnity, and grandeur all at one and the same time: came out of nowhere with a million micro-lemmings who all died but one piercer of membrane, specially picked to start a brainmaking, egg-drop soup, that stirred two sun and moon centers for a new-painted sky in the tiniest ballroom imaginable.
Clever description of how the sperm fertilized the egg to create his son.
from a dad's perspective, this one could be sort of equivalent of Pamela Sinicrope's Mother At Midnight - poem of the day.. :)