The hipster blows his schnoz

thick burgundy plastic eyeframes, a Mac,

minimum drip coffee purchase, furrowed brow

stuffs the snotty thing into his jeans


This ain’t no farm, bro


You are not

my father,

and that is not his hanky


You are not

in a field,

far from tissues


You are not

wiping grease from a tractor’s gear

or the run from a grandchild’s nose


You are not

suddenly cradling a five-year-old me

bleeding from the mouth

scanning the ground for three missing teeth


You are not

sorting hogs in the winter,

planting seeds in the spring


You are not

riding a lawnmower in the summer,

Jack Russell on the side


You are not

tapping your toe to polka

in the fall


You are not

nursing a tender shoulder

in a partially broken chair

keeping your mouth shut


You are not

steering a truck through Korea,

spitting snoose in Prairie du Chien


This is not 1952


You are not

eating ground ham with Mert and Romie

struggling into overalls

learning a new remote


You have not lost your book of numbers,

you are not digging for your wife’s cell


You are not a driver,

once more looking for his road






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  1. March 6, 2016

    Jodi, as we read this we saw your Dad in it and through it! How beautifully and lovingly written!

    • March 7, 2016

      Thank you so much for your kind words. Fathers are special people, as you well know…

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