That Bass Guitar Tastes Like Fish

I made my son some soup

And I told him lots of stories about my dad

And I wish I had

More time to make

Soup

And stew

And chicken bog, too

From the heart

To you

My three daughters

All who

Live Elsewhere

Like the Saint

That’s the picture I like to paint

Or whom, not who

If that’s more correct

And it is, I suspect

Plus...

Don’t you forget

The one I never met

Not quite yet

But someday, maybe

She died as a baby

Buried in a hole

The size of a shooting marble game pot

Dug with young boys’ hands

She’s part of the land

And I can’t stand

To think of it

Because here’s the gist of it

If god, if (s)he gave a single shit

That girl would be here

A woman in her forties

Telling me stories

About the days before we

Met

Did you forget?

I haven’t yet

I still haven’t met her, nyet

But I will

She wasn’t my offspring

But her memory still brings

A tear to my eye

And here’s why

That bass guitar tastes like fish, but it’s yellow

And I’m not running for office

But get this

I made soup for my son

And he’s the only one

Who got to have some

I hope they all come

Over to the house in the sky

When we all die

And I

Will tell all of them

Lots of stories about my dad

Taste this soup, will ya?

Not bad?

I sure hope Amy will like it