Prodigal Dodger Poem by Buddy Bee Anthony

It doesn't take much more than a mating instinct
to be a father. presto,
Here it is, and there it goes,
Yes, I qualify as a father.
I snuck in through the chimney carrying flowers
and mead. This prodigal steed
hip deep into prodigal daughters.
A gardener out planting my seed
Night time visits to love starved girls
dropped off at
prep school dorm room incubators.
We'd stay in bed from dusk til noon.
Until the day they'd be
whisked away
by their mother's religion.
Through some cosmic quirk
I was chosen
to sire a fine, strong son and a
love child daughter
A daughter I never met.
If momma's precious grew up anything like her papa
she'd kiss em' and tease em'
she'd love em, then leave em


If she asked them to stay.
They'd have little chance
of going astray
That's lust
a take no prisoners game.
Her body heat
is high end gear
to bear more fruit
expanding her territories.
My birth daughter would 'dress' for success
while wearing the 'pants.'
A lusty dame,
plotting all day.
because she's built that way

and she'd evade becoming
enclosed and entombed
as some wayward mouse
to be squeezed, then
consumed by the constriction of
of a coiled marriage.
Trapped by the first starry eyed paramour
who sells her how
his bite holds the only venom she could ever desire.
The only one who could ever make her happy.
Best believe
she's out there somewhere
blazing trails
armed with the wild, wayward, warrior's blood
of this prodigal dodger.