"Wait Till Your Father Gets Home" by John Buckley

He’s not deadanymore; he sent Michael Landon walkingand Della Reese down, Neo to be wrackedfor our sins. So says the post-Nietzschean hot-dog vendor, inter-rupting his inquiries into the adventof the dirty-water Überwurst.Look at the fractals in altruists’ hearts,the echoing economy of gracea Mandelbrot set emanating compassion.Consider the eddies of Brownian motionfrom incense dispensers. Fancythe plotlines of lives, filigreed Frisbees,arcing past firmaments millennia long.Daddy did this and that, that and this,infinite craftsmanship, carving each pipas the dice spin for all of us.True, he stepped out for cigarettes.True, he missed each school playand successive recitals. True, he gave Eve the bug:serpent’s tooth code for a cuspate sarcoma.But one day, he’s going to returnto throw us the best birthday party.Balloons for acres. Cake pyrotechnics.The world’s greatest electrocumulusbounce-castle ball-pit. You’re goingto cry if you ate the last cookie. You’regoing to cry if you stepped on a crack.These are the days whenwe kneel on the couches andwatch the front door. 

After twenty years in and around California, John F. Buckley once again lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan with his wife. His publications include various poems, two chapbooks, the collection Sky Sandwiches, and with Martin Ott, Poets’ Guide to America and Yankee Broadcast Network. Visit his website to learn more.

Artwork: Love, Laugh and Please Dream Lots, Scott Ackerman