Andrew Hudgins

(22 April 1951 -- / Killeen, Texas)

Playing Dead - Poem by Andrew Hudgins

Our father liked to play a game.
He played that he was dead.
He took his thick black glasses off
and stretched out on the bed.

He wouldn't twitch and didn't snore
or move in any way.
He didn't even seem to breathe!
We asked, Are you okay?

We tickled fingers up and down
his huge, pink, stinky feet—
He didn't move; he lay as still
as last year's parakeet.

We pushed our fingers up his nose,
and wiggled them inside—
Next, we peeled his eyelids back.
Are you okay? we cried.

I really thought he might be dead
and not just playing possum,
because his eyeballs didn't twitch
when I slid my tongue across 'em.

He's dead, we sobbed—but to be sure,
I jabbed him in the jewels.
He rose, like Jesus, from the dead,
though I don't think Jesus drools.

His right hand lashed both right and left.
His left hand clutched his scrotum.
And the words he yelled—I know damn well
I'm way too young to quote 'em.

Topic(s) of this poem: father


Comments about Playing Dead by Andrew Hudgins

  • Mohammed Asim Nehal (2/2/2016 1:06:00 PM)


    Many lessons to learn from this game o death. (Report) Reply

    1 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • (1/12/2016 10:42:00 PM)


    Good entertainment reading the poem. Thanks for sharing,10 points. (Report) Reply

  • Susan Williams (1/12/2016 4:05:00 PM)


    His topics go from this ludicrous verse to the power and glory of Steppingstone? Color me puzzled by this poem's presence here. (Report) Reply

  • (1/12/2016 3:03:00 AM)


    that's how they
    take down bulls
    (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, March 3, 2015



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