Member Poem

Every third year, dad
puts on a pair
Of red converse and
Dances around the house.

He insists
We go out for lunch.
A dozen oysters each.
A bushel of beer.

We rush to the ice cream store
And just this (these) once(s),
He lets mom play music in the car.

He’s had the same converse since 1985.

Dry rotted to yellow
In the cobwebbed and
Cedared corners of his closet,
Otherwise lined with starched
Shirts, sacred against my cheek
In a hug. A sharp pleat and a favorite pen.

Boyhood, dead on the vine.
Blocked from the sun by
a custom cut and straight-
Laced curtain of white
Collar masculinity.

Jesus dad, wear them
Through. Wear them
‘til your dancing toes
Touch the pavement.
Dance with me,

Then throw them away.
I don't care.
I just
I just don’t
Know why I keep looking
Down and waiting to see a
New pair. Renew your lease
On life.

Because you know,
I asked you to dance
Every day for 1000 days
And just when I learned how
To stop, you
Lifted me in your arms and
Spun me around the kitchen
Around and around
And around

Spontaneous, frightening fervor.
I only ever took ballet class.
Disciplined taffeta silence in a
Mirrored hall of lonely little girls.

Around and down.
Tucked neatly on the shelf. Until next
Time.

You put on a pair of red Converse
And danced around the house.