when i ask my father to spend time
away from his quibbling
and political diatribe
to read poetry
it pains him
as he reads he seems to sigh
why why why
is she wasting my time?
he reads, he skims, he stands up fast
a grimace marks his face at last
its depressing
he snarks
with a disappointed air
i don't like
depressing poems,.
a poem about death
is it really depressing?
ok, well, that's
obvious in its truth
but there are plenty that speak of
the other side of life
reading one two three
down
down
my feed
there's love
life
hearts
dreams
all splayed out
on the operating table
we 'literates'
call poetry