remembering bOB

Yesterday was your birthday. Today is Father's Day. Missing you terribly. And trying to deal with it the only way I know how: writing.

Father’s Day

for R.E.B. III, 6/18/65 to 8/30/10

The blue pen flows, the gospel radio brays.

This day is different from all other days.

No mass, no kaddish, everything's been said.

We’ll plant a young tree with the kids instead,

right near the playground. Now we say Amen.

It’s bluegrass now. A love we shared. I met

my fiddle hero at that festival,

your gig. He died just two years later: old,

a lifelong smoker. You were forty-five,

ate vegetarian and rode your bike.

Six-two, one hundred sixty pounds of brawn.

I wonder if they’ll miss me when I’m gone—

the dobro twangs, the banjo taunts my ear,

the upright bass is—well, upright. Too clear.