father

Some Days Are Grimmer Than the Rest

                   for my son, Wade (1963-1993)

A Snowball’s Chance...

Collapsing on the learner's slope at Aspen
I skied downhill into Hell.
I can recall as my aneurism burst,
Clutching snow; then an acrid smell.

The devil came striding toward me.
Still feeling mortal, I did as mortals do:
I squeezed the icy crystals into a ball
And, hard as I could, I threw!

It melted as it left my phantom fingers
Resolving into a dew.
Satan cackled, "Son! The fun has just begun!
Every cliché here comes true!"

Que Bella!