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

who kisses

and fondles me

and scrumptiously tucks me in bed

night after night

while I was ripening.