Father's Day

By Rebecca L. Morrison

I. Oil Struck

In the 80s, America railed

too much blow

through big, big bills.

Big hair, big economy,

big was the way we saw

our impotent balls.

Generation X made fortunes

then sniffed them to residue.

I've got a bad back, or I'd

clean up the mess (the one

Regan couldn't).

In the 80s, I cut lines of ink and paper.

Turned it all over, got rich quick. Lost

my first child, lost my religion.

II. Emerald Struck

With wife number three, I got it

right. Skinny baby's legs went on

for miles. Could've poured her skin

over cereal. Hundred percent sex

in a tight black dress,

smoldering Marlboro Reds,

ring finger shining like envy.

Her best friend Ana craved

a threesome, but I force-fed

skinny baby buttery stir-fries,

oily shrimp scampi, cheddar

cheese, oozing and sharp, until,

one day, she lost her self-esteem.

The wind doesn't scare us these days.

Baby got fat, and Ana don't

come around no more.

III. Striking A Balance

The wall tumbled down in October;

I met a red-head that December.

Five pounds, eight ounces.

Tiny little cherub

with a set of raspy lungs

screaming cry, cry baby,

honey, welcome back home.

I walked the floors every night,

hydrated her roots, gave her room

to grow. Now, she's wilting,

and my hair ran off,

and fat baby won't

show me her teeth no more.