His own song.
I would wait sit watch
An hour, day, week, month, year for him
To take me to the places filled with his song, "Hi Joe!"
Smoke filled offices: with scratchy sofas and pretty singing secretaries "Hi Joe!"
Dark red bars: sticky booths and endless Shirley Temples: just a flash of open door and the scowl
on each stool became a chorus "Hi Joe!"
Poolside Las Vegas: beautiful oiled babysitters tying, untying tiny bikini tops to turn at timer's ding,
they waited, with skinny myopic me, to lift their faces from towels on lounge chairs and sing "Hi Joe!"
"Hi Joe!" rang out everywhere: "go get a bucket of balls" driving ranges, bright "you won't sunburn" trap shoots,
dark "I'll be right back" R-rated movies, under piles of coats in the spare rooms of big houses, the quiet of closing
restaurants and "stay in the car" parking lots. My dad Joe had his own song. I would wait, sit, hope; an hour, day, week,
month, year for him to hear me sing.