Over the endless chasm
of telephone lines
his voice
is canned Wilford Brimley
coasting comfortably
from the coal black
telephone receiver
to my overfilled head.
His voice makes me
push aside incongruous,
time-filling nonsense
for home-cooked
civility and kindness.
I call my father
on days when the
dam bursts
and every non-important
happenstance
sits on my furrowed brow
shaking its fingers,
asking answer less
questions..
When self-doubt
is my most abundant commodity
and self-abuse
isn't far down the list.
I call my father,
it's always reassuring
to know someone believes in me
when the demons
squat on my shoulders,
whisper sweet deviance in my ears
and sleep seems a distant memory
from a mouse
I saw when I was five
when drive-ins still existed.
His voice
always gets me through
with a smile.
Copyright, EPB 1996
