There was love and there was trees.

    Either you could stay inside and probe your emotions

    or you could go outside and keenly observe nature.

    Describe the sheen on carapaces¹，

    the effect of breeze on grass.

    What's the fag doing now？ Dad would say.

    Picking the nose of his heart？

    Wanking off on a daffodil？

    He's not homosexual， Mom would retort， using her apron² as a potholder to

    remove the apple brown betty from the oven.

    He's sensitive. He cares.

    He wishes to impart values and standards to an indifferent world.

    Wow！ said Dad， stomping³ off to the pantry for another scotch⁴. Two poets in

    the family. Ain't I a lucky duck？

    As fate would have it， I became one of your tweedy English teachers， what

    Dad would call a daffodil-wanker，

    and Mom ended up doing needlepoint， seventy-two kneelers for St. Fred's

    before she expired of the heart broken on the afternoon that Dad

    roared off with the Hell's Angels.

    We heard a little from Big Sur. A beard. Tattoos⁵. A girlfriend named Strawberry.

    A boyfriend named Thor.

    Bars and pot and coffeehouses， stuff like that.

    After years of quotation⁶ by younger poets， admiration⁷ but no real notice，

    Dad is making the anthologies now.

    Critics cite his primal⁸ rage， the way he nails Winnetka.