Random books from William-E-Dudley's library
Meadowlands by Louise Gluck
Bound to Please by Michael Dirda
Hybrids of Plants and of Ghosts (Princeton Series of Contemporary Poets) by Jorie Graham
Woe Is I: The Grammarphobe's Guide to Better English in Plain English, Second Edition by Patricia T. O'Conner
Home Sweet Home: The House in American Folk Art by Deborah Harding
Amusing Ourselves to Death by Neil Postman
Beckett: Waiting for Godot (Landmarks of World Literature (New)) by Lawrence Graver
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posted by AuthorsandExperts at 10:16 pm (EST) on Mar 22, 2009
by Henri Cole
My father lived in a dirty dish mausoleum,
watching a portable black-and-white television,
reading the Encyclopedia Britannica,
which he preferred to Modern Fiction.
One by one, his schnauzers died of liver disease,
except the one that guarded his corpse
holding a tumbler of Bushmills.
"Dead is dead," he would say, an anti-preacher.
I took a plaid shirt from the bedroom closet
and some motor oil—my inheritance.
Once, I saw him weep in a courtroom—
neglected, needing nursing—this man who never showed
me much affection but gave me a knack
for solitude, which has been mostly useful.
Reprinted from Blackbird and Wolf © 2007 by Henri Cole
posted by BenMarcus at 12:38 pm (EST) on Apr 10, 2007