West to West Collection XX

I'm emptying the salts in my bag

in the tank, there is a large shark

the guest room has its fave snack

but first there are passport stamps

their sheer size beat its breakfast

so its sickness is nocturnal forever.

I stumbled on his headlamp’s dave

if it was light, it wasn't on a stage

everyone called it blazing a trail

it was racing to starve a shame

a die of pips always by a grace

so I hadn't found him in game

a warm cup, a mild milk pane

a love song buff, ever brave.

My dad is a minus

oh see his earplugs

quiet virgin emotions

he's to be deaf genius

but oh listening seldom

the immemorable figure

rooms space in his crock

shampoo a gorilla's asylum

write him the poem for a plus.

Oh shirts, a million by a size

while my dad came in bites

milk, cheese, meet a smile

the milk curd of my gripes

kids sought new designs

lost in choice for a spice

I grew up with no spite

for he'd my brain fried

daddy ever disguised.

Maybe I'm dreaming

binocular weep affixed

in a situation I'm bleeding

it's myself I'm never escaping

not the fish wrap you're holding

if you're my dad, what an itinerary.