When My Father Found Out I Was Writing Poetry

we were on our way down

to Camp Baumann in Merrick*

it was the summer of ‘56

he pulled the dump truck over

to the side off Old Country Road*

turned off the engine and gripped

both hands around the steering wheel

I hear you’re writing (there was a slight

pause and then he spat out the word)

poetry is it true he wanted to know

there was another pause this time mine

I’d written a poem or two and I was

thinking to myself holy crap what do

I do now caught as I was then I said

yes I had but really it was no big deal

well he said in a low voice, you’re still

my son and then he turned the key

and the engine started up and soon

we were back on the road heading south

and me about to start another day

gathering the golden droppings

of Bob Baumann’s horses in their Pegasian*

stables down by the pines relieved

to know I was still my father’s son.