father was visited one night by his terrible stomach long enough for it to mumble no one has to know I’m here.  his brothers were all red sheep.  his daughter from his first two marriages has since gone on to assess accident vehicles.  when I was a boy I’d tell her one breast didn’t like the other.  she’d cry.  twirl a baton.  her baby brother would call to her from the front lawn and I’d have to go under her bed for the window ladder because she was wearing a skirt.  her mother was said to be able to floss with cobwebs.  her mother entered my thoughts with video game controllers that had taken the brunt of nosebleeds.  everyone was soft or painting books in an after hours library.  afflicted with hush, my father ventures wholeheartedly into the phrase it’s all ***** in a sandbox while aware of the baton as anomaly.  poems provide the mediocre privacy of poems.