I remember, or at least believe I do (The memories wispy, ethereal, The stuff of dream or perhaps simple misapprehension) How I would be half-asleep, The pro forma repetition of bedside prayers in my head, Asking for benediction for Grandma and Grandpa And all the ships at sea As my father would come home from his lodge (I forget the mammal in question--****** or elk, Or perhaps some fictional comedic excuse Akin to Ralph Kramden's raccoons) Singing at a volume he believed sufficiently soft, Though my mother was quick to inform him otherwise, And the tales of poor Tom Dooley Or some unnamed tavern in the town Would intermingle with the remnants of my supplications, And they would synthesize as some code, Some argot of some unknown in-crowd Whose patter was beyond my ken. My father's songbird days stopped quite abruptly, And during the proceedings paying homage to that coda, God was frequently cited, indeed summoned, And I suspect he tottered earthward, At which point he proceeded to absent himself From my further consideration and commiseration, And I came to such a time where hazy night-time songs Were part and parcel of my routine, Though more bourbon-fed than sleep-induced, And when the talk turned to such things As the pros and cons of one's patrimony, I was wont to opine that I was the product of two fathers, The bequests of whom tended to wax and wane in value.