My father, like a lot of dads, was always making statements,
vowing that the three of us would take exotic trips.
The ones we actually took were simply journeys into town…
his promised ones were those that called for trains, or planes…or ships.

“One o’ these days,” he told me once, “we’ll run on down to Bixby…
an’ you an’ me an’ Mom ‘ll see ourselves a picture show!
We’ll wait until they say they’re showin’ a Jimmy Stewart film.
When Jimmy’s in ‘em…don’t take much to get you’re mom to go.  

“I’m sure we’ll have to beg a bit ‘cause movies ain’t exactly
somethin’ she’d be quick to pick for how to spend a buck.
And you know mother - bless her soul - she’d sooner buy the makin’s
for clothes we need…or make an extra payment on the truck.  

“An’ one of these days the three of us ‘ll see that darned Hawaii.
We’ll sell the old jalopy that your Granddad passed us down.
Up until you came along, that car was all we had,
aside from that old buggy, son…fer makin’ runs to town.

“No idea how much it costs to fly to them there islands,
but shouldn’t be a whole lot more than Grandpa’s car ‘d bring.
Ya’ know, Laverl…except for when we made that trip to Denver
to make your Uncle Leonard’s funeral…we ain’t done a thing!

“An’ one of these days we’ll lock this place up tight and take a road trip.  
We’ll see that ol’ Grand Canyon…then head north and see Pike’s Peak.
Maybe we should give some thought to buyin’ a station wagon…
I’m sure that doin’ both those things would take us near a week!

“Trouble is, like most of us who farm, it’s mostly winter-times
that offer opportunities to take a family trip.
We’d booked a flight to Birmingham, remember - last November -
to see Aunt Pearl, but canceled when your mother broke her hip.

“An’ one of these day, I promise, son…I’ll drag out that old jon boat.
We’ll fix that leak an’ take ‘er down to Silver Glacier Lake.
I know your mom ‘d go for that ‘cause - every single summer
she lets me know that goin’ there’s a trip she’d love to make.          

“Fishin’ ain’t expensive, and it ain’t but forty miles,
so, more than likely, that’s one place we’ll actually get to go.
I know I’ve made some lofty claims for things I’d like to do,  
and if we’ll ever get them done, well…I don’t rightly know…

“But, one of these days, I’ll keep my word…an’ you an’ me an’ Mom
‘ll take whatever dough we’ve got and - like you know we’ve tried -
pack our bags and head to -- who knows where.”        
Trouble is…at somewhere close to nine o’clock last night…my father died!

You always change the subject when I ask about receipts -
that turn up in your pockets now and then -
For stays in odd localities where branches of the firm
you’ve worked for all these years have never been.

And isn’t it peculiar how, when late night calls come in,
depending on who answers…me, or you…
Never will they just hang up…when I don’t beat you to them…
but will - so very often - when I do.

“You don’t wanna know,” has been your typical response
whenever I attempt to learn the truth,
But finding out about your sins was not a major feat,
and done without the need to play the sleuth.

Facts betraying when and where are gleaned from your receipts
and features on your phone inform me - who,
So all that’s left for me to figure out…and understand…
is why - you choose to cheat the way you do.

Trying hard to disregard what, somewhere down the road,
always ruins a life and breaks a heart,
I have been pretending that it’s me you love the most,
and tried…for all these months…to do my part.

But now it’s very clear to me that you have truly changed,
and aren’t the man with whom I fell in love,
And how you tear my heart to shreds - by nudging me aside -
has fin’ly made its way from - push - to shove!

So, now, my love…with great regret
(as once again you whisper
the name of who you cheat with in your sleep),
I’ve decided you should take your leave of this - our bed…
and - to your grave - the secrets that you keep!

And as I **** the hammer on this pistol that I’m holding…
and point it at your unsuspecting head…                     
Through my tears I clearly see the only certain way
you’ll never cheat again is…if you’re dead!

As often is the case…the “word” that beckoned came at dawn,
and, as the slave this made of me…I rose to heed its call.
The early morn intruder that aroused me from my sleep
was begging for appeasement from the room just down the hall.

Self rebuked and chastised for the many times I’d lain
and disregarded - recklessly - the little voice I’d heard,
I stumbled down the hallway, and I slid into my chair,
then cracked my knuckles wide awake, and pounded out the word.

The uninvited word…that found its way into my head.
The alphabetic prowler who’d intruded on my dream.
The tiny bunch of letters that would disrespect my sleep,
and join - without permission - my creative writing team.

Ordinary? Yes! But tiny universes dwell
in certain words and phrases we all use from day to day.
And…as a poet…I’m inclined to meld these little bits
to cast the clear and simple “desperate truths” I mean to say.

Every language has them. They are common…and routine.
They’re easy to pronounce…and understood by one and all.     
And I will always ply my trade in verse with “simple terms,”
to forge my gems of wisdom, in the room just down the hall.

Here’s a common story in the world of would-be writers.
There’s not a thing about this tale that…sadly…isn’t true.
Your manuscript is finally done, you’ve proofed it several times, and, after waiting several months, your editor is through.

You try to represent yourself to publishers you feel
are sure to love your work - based on their advertising claims -
Only to discover that they’ll only take submissions
from writers who have agents…or already famous names!

The mem’ry this evokes in me is terribly parallel.
So clearly I still see the fleeting figure that I chased
That Sunday afternoon we gathered, as we often did,
to play our favorite football game: “Two-hands-below-the-waist.”

Only nine showed up that day (we almost played with eight),
but brother, Marty, called a friend, and so, we had our ten.
We became concerned when Marty pointed at the end zone
and told the guy, “If we can get the ball to there…we win,

“But…if somebody touches you - two-hands-below-the-waist -
you have to stop…the ‘play’ is done…and then you start again.
In 4 attempts we need to move the ball down - 2 white lines -
to get another 4 attempts…it’s called a ‘first and ten.’ ”

Everybody realized this guy had never played,
but Marty’s team would get him…after all…he’d called the guy.
They could only hope he’d do the things they told him to,
and probably felt that…if they lost…he’d be the reason why.

I remember, vividly, quite early in the game
(it couldn’t have been ten minutes since the playing had begun),
They sent him down the field about ten yards to catch a pass.
He actually caught it pretty clean…and then began to run.

We’d fin’ly lost possession only ten yards from their end zone,
so…consequently… Marty’s guy had ninety yards to go.                  
I thought I had him cornered when I went to make the tag,
and how he got away from me - I swear I’ll never know!

But “get away” he did…so there I was, in hot pursuit.
And, as it was expected, I was quickly closing ground.
After all…my room at home had trophies wall to wall,
and most of them for track...I was the fastest guy around.

But as I tried my best to close the gap on Marty’s buddy
(and I was running very hard - I thought my lungs would bust),
Just as I was getting close…he shifted into high…
and even at my strongest pace…he left me in the dust!

A very average looking chap…he didn’t seem the type…
yet, there he was…the fastest guy that we had ever seen.
The makings of a super star, yet no one knew his name
before the day he blew our minds…and that is what I mean

When I proclaim the foolishness of closing ears and eyes
to anyone because you simply…do not know their name.
Those you’ve never heard of might contribute something special, and I assert - it’s often wise to…let them in the game.

I wooed your heart with poetry I’d written just for you, and sang you as a symphony, which stirred my very soul,
Never once suspecting what I thought would make you love me was not a means for doing so of which I had control.

I was just naïve enough to think I could ****** you with clever words of metered rhyme, and, for a while, I felt
My strategy was working well, never once suspecting that one I loved could actually deal the blow my heart was dealt.

Now you call to tell me you’ve discovered your mistake, and - certain that by telling me you’re sorry - I’ll give in,
Never once suspecting that, despite your many charms, your chance is gone forever at a love that - could have been.