For the ones who raised me

The albums are how I will keep my parents
after they have joined Jerry in the ashy dirt.
The voters of their bootlegged vinyls
hand stenciled in a cheap tent with tabs under tongue
will always look like my father’s fingers
searching for the rhythm on the steering wheel,
the frantic cry of sunshine daydream
is my mom, spatula in hand on Thanksgiving
rattling her bones against our hardwood floors
a skeletal frenzy
The cd shelf dedicated to live recordings
over the living rooms black box speakers,
Do you hear what the guitar is doing there?
Dad’s hips too slow for Mickey’s drums,
Mom’s hips too fast
a whirlwind of smoky bathrooms
swollen joint hands over a smooth fretboard
so pleased to finally find the right note,
I was getting it there at the end, wasn’t I?
My dad a dancing bear,
mom the bolt of lightning.

 

I know this is kind of a cheesy poem – but you’ve gotta write bad love poems for your family every once in a while. 

 

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