FOREIGNER

I live with the Philistine Neanderthals.

And though I match the color of their skin,

And I’ve tried to learn their languages and customs

I am likely never going to fit in.

Sometimes when they are speaking fluent football,

Or discussing tools or technical sorts of things,

I ask them if they’ve heard of Dylan Thomas.

They ask about the music that he sings.

“Does anyone speak Dickenson?” No answer.

They’re too busy manning the remote.

“Would someone please go with me to see Shakespeare?”

They stuff fries and burgers down their throat.

Often they lie about like glutted lions.

And I would keep them company, although,

I’d like to talk to someone about paintings.

“Does anyone here understand? HelloOOo?”

The above was written at a time when my two daughters had married and left me home with a house full of guys all high school age or older.  The situation has changed some, however I expect much screaming at flashing lights on the wall in the mancave this Sunday evening (Superbowl Sunday).  I still wish there was someone around who spoke my language. And The Vikings were robbed.

In honor of Dylan Thomas, my painting of Fern Hil