I’m becoming
my old man.
That’s ok
he was the original.
He stood
in privileged rooms
but on the sidelines.
The inner circle
was for others
possessing the right pedigrees,
the right colleges degrees,
the right hair grease.
We both found ways
to sneak in,
to fit in
where we weren’t expected.
He was polite to a fault
and rarely traded in vulgarities,
unless there was
a conspiratorial laugh
to be harvested.
He had more
self-discipline,
but I went more places
he was afraid to go.
That fear kept him
from visiting doctors,
to avoid any bad news,
and he was finally seen
when he was in the morgue
undergoing an autopsy.
He was humble,
an outsider
a servant.
He made me laugh,
never excluded anyone
and was generous
beyond expectation.
I didn’t envy his
(now mine)
receding hair line
but I did covet
his prodigious genitalia.
Mostly,
I have his smile
and his kind heart.
He was the original
MexiMensch,
and I am but
a mere aspirant.
(For the longest time, this was our only family portrait. My Pop is the tall one on the left. Poem written for Poets United.)
