in infancy,
vienna waited for me.

before bedtime,
i stood on my father’s feet
and put my tiny hands
in his large ones
as we danced around the livingroom
to billy joel.

i learned to read at two;
while young, my father taught me
how to gently set a record on the turntable,
move the arm, set the needle down

and i read the lyrics, memorizing:
war child, dark side of the moon, sports.

we made our fingers walk on a thin line;
we made our faces angry with grins.

he, via ian anderson, showed me
how to carry a sword and take a stand,
told me to be who i really want to be
and taught me what to do
when i join the good ship earth.

older yet, we sang duets,
his deep “by the hand, hand, take me by the hand”
to my “i wanna hear some funky dixieland—”
his “no sugar tonight”
to my “new mother nature.”

now, at fifty-six and twenty-five,
we sing about shiny teeth and having
nothin’ but a good time.
we teach the midwest
not to mess with a *******.