Dad was fat all his life
Obese
He couldn’t do a lot of things.
Walk without special help
Bathe
Climb stairs
Sit in a normal chair
Drive a normal car
Sleep in a normal bed
And say “I love you, son.”

To draw those words out
of his dad he became a cartoonist,
but that also failed.

And now that his father
was dead,
collapsed face down
on the kitchen floor,
blood seeping out of a head wound,
he struggled to turn him over
on his back
and dipped his finger in the blood
and drew a speech bubble
next to his father’s head
and wrote in it the famous words.

Finally.
“I love you too, dad.”

Fancy the bare tree of January
As the Sorcerer’s magic brush
There to paint a Winter’s gray sketch
As a fresh and vibrant landscape of Spring

Noted. May I began
Collapsing the 3 letters;
a letterpress collection
of nonsense
Wasteful sentences
of youthful melancholy;
drugs o cheer
I raise a glass and toast your
wicked ways -

Rome has set on the sun,
Spreads the rays of its streets
And the warmth of its torches.
Caesar commands nightfall come,
To make florid incense and wine
And talk as one full of the moon.