Rattle

It’s my dad’s birthday – 75 today. He was born in Scranton, PA, but lived most of his life in NJ before moving to Santa Fe over a decade ago. He loves it there. I love it there, too. My dad and I have a lot in common. Neither of us is a terribly enthusiastic person. We both had kind of unhappy childhoods, his worse than mine. We both like elaborative humor. Neither of us is into horseback riding. He writes. I write. I hope my dad lives forever. Thanks to my brother Thatcher for letting me use this photograph of pops dressed as a skeleton.

Here's a found poem from one of my father's emails.
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I had a dream Saturday night
you were abducted by gypsies.
You were very young, like in kindergarten,

and we were traveling somewhere. June came
to tell me some people were taking you away.
I saw a group of men and women walking away and one

of them was pulling you in a little red wagon.
By the time I caught up with them they’d gone
into a house but two of the group, two

men, were standing outside. I said I had come
for my daughter, I had to have her
because we were leaving tomorrow –

this wasn’t true, but I thought I needed a reason
to get you back. One of the men asked how
late do you let her stay up?

I figured he was stalling me while the others left
with you by another door or hid you somewhere
and so I started for the door,

and I looked in – the door had windows in it.
It was a frightening dream.
But June said it was about poetry.