daddy was

he tossed flutter floats down into the mushroom bogs,
did his skip spin whirl with worrisome pivots, and laughed
his daddy's laugh, full of glimmering bruises, wiped with

rhinestone paste and mouthy smooches, and sang
his daddy's lullabies, pocked by hungry promises
when teddy's bear stole his moonlight and did his

whisper, did his frolic in some darkly two-step that brought
hurrahs, cause daddy was a singer-man, a minstrel-face
that shook with tales of loopy lads arunning in the their

shadows, who spoke with crocus-flies about lolita's last
review, and he tossed his years away, down into the fawning
audience, edging in their seats to spy his ever bolder creams,

his lotions that would make him a.miller's golden fella,
raising operatic glasses to weep and cherish his slight
mascara, marvel at the dresser's craft that blushed away

old margarita's kiss, and he tossed his famous lines onto
his bedroom floor, where wandered footprints his father
traced as night fell into night fell into night