my father was a
pretty perfect guy,
beloved by most
and especially children.

He was a ‘gallant’ (gaaa~laant)
of european extraction,
who tipped his homburg
and greeted everyone by name,
forgetting none and
who was related to whom,
or their distant cousins
in Kansas City,
with whom he stayed
when he was a
traveling salesman,
in 1933.

My only complaint,
was and remains,
he never went with me
to Yankee Stadium,
saw the emerald green
diamond miracle
in the Bronx hidden,
as he, small businessman,
worked six days a week,
and had no time
for juvenile sports pastimes,
otherwise, he was my
All-American…

Otherwise, he was perfect