WingSpan Poetry Project



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One guest after another

walked into my father’s house

excited and welcomed

by the best host in town.

My father had built

a backyard for friends

with tables and chairs

all nicely arranged.

To top his pride

he built a huge BBQ

where he roasted the meat

with scratch sauce to pour.

And then as the drinks

came flowing through

the people got happy,

laughed, fought, and loved too.

As alcohol inebriated

my father through the night,

my mind was plotting

for how and what to find.

His pockets, his pockets

to my father I would ask

Daddy give me your pocket,

give all in my hands.

And he did.

My hands full of money,

many bills in my hand,

only until the next morning

when he asked for them back.



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