poetry critical

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wife's uncle the jackass

waving his blackberry
and hundred-dollar cigars
while whithering us
with vapid stories
of steak dinners
with ceo’s
and state senators.
i'd like nothing more
than burying my knuckles
in his temple,
or at the very least
pointing out
his nullity
in the grand scheme.
but today
my newborn son
is on my knee.
ten years back
before i'd met my wife
rod’s only son
was nine months old
when brain cancer
ate him up
in less than one month.
since the birth of my son
i can't even look
at an infant’s obituary,
let alone imagine
how that kind of blow
would run through me.
it could very well turn me
into a pompous
money-maker.  but i have the idea
it would be too much,
and i'd go too.
i take my son inside
to my wife.
go back out
and accept
one of rod's
i role it
in my fingers.
we are guaranteed
nothing.  i accept that
as fact.  but the flesh
trickles hope
into our cold
i puff a broken smoke ring
and ask him
please tell me again
how you eagled
that dog-leg left
while playing thirty-six
with the county attorney
and news anchor
from channel five.

27 Apr 07

(define the words in this poem)

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Seriously, I now identify this as being written by "the unknown who doesn't know the difference between roll and role."  This is the third "unknown" poem in a week with that problem.  On a roll -- of dice, ROLLing DICE -- he is "on a roll," not "on a role."

Oh, except this time it is ROLEing a cigar.
 — unknown