My dad would have been hitting ninety about now, so that is kinda unreal, but I miss the guy at times. I talk about my mom from time to time but rarely mention my dad.
My dad was great and he had a way with words. He was the stereotypical, smooth talking Irishman...just like the last of his sons.
Here is a poem from his first book, Irish Coffee, entitled Dinner in a New Neighborhood:
On the terrace we waited,
not knowing what to say.
We neck-bowed like penguins
and made guttural sounds
that reverberated in crescendo.
We swept the air with our wings
but obesity rendered us earthbound.
Panic-stricken, we iced our faces,
and grew silent.
Suddenly, our host appeared
and introduced us, each by name
The metamorphosis unmasked us.
Our sounds became words,
and words became sentences.
The wax melted from our arms,
and in earnest jubilation we rushed to clasp the hands
of our neighbors.
Jack Mahoney (C)1974