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ABBA by Errol Strider
I kissed my father and held his hand;
that should tell you something about me
and my theology.
For me, Father is a fat face
which makes me want to pinch the cheeks of Sid Caesar
like my father,
too funny for reruns even.
But my dad cried for me,
even though it was for himself, he feared lost
as I was being expelled from college
and the marble walls wanted to sweat with my Father’s tears.
He loved me, he did, my ol’ man,
in spite of his death
and my judgment of his weakness
and that he left this life as a bud
and not as a blossom.
But I did hold his hand during his late night life
in front of the Johnny Carson show
and we laughed where we couldn’t talk or grow,
and though he wouldn’t give me the car
to run off after women,
he continued to hug me in my thoughts
and made God a God
and fondles me
and scrumptiously tucks me in bed
night after night
while I was ripening.