Portrait of Dad, June 1970, Pittsburgh, PA (prose poem)
Armed with a No. 2 pencil in his right, a quartered Arts and Leisure in his left, and Polaroid lenses flipped perpendicular to his bifocals, Dad sat in an inflatable, transparent orange club chair, scowling.
A short-sleeve, button-down shirt that looked like a pajama top revealed arm hair that kind of stood like alfalfa sprouts. He wore an Omega watch with a cheap elastic drug-store wristband.
Right ankle crossed over his left knee, a milky white kneecap peeked between his black, nylon Gold Toe knee socks and khaki walking shorts. His feet slipped into a pair of brown rubber thongs that accommodated socks.
He rose, and with his hands on his waist, did a backbend, groaned and cursed the Atlas Van Line movers for striking. Damn them for making him sleep on a borrowed cot for three weeks.
Then he returned to his inflatable club chair to take on his final opponent — 11 across — Leisure suit
Dad Moment (100-word story)
I’m ten-years-old and playing with that self-pitching tube you bought my brother, who spends most of the time in his room reading comic books.
Mom’s somewhere inside doing something.
Stomping on the closed end jets air to the plastic ball atop the open end.
When I swing the lightweight bat at the now-suspended ball — Crack!
it soars over our nine-foot hedges.
I’m gonna’ go get it when,
I spy you in the picture window doubled-over laughing,
at what, something Mom just said?
But once I see you see me, then I beam back at you beaming at me.