99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall
That summer when I couldn’t see
for grief — for who could guarantee
he’d ever walk again? – I’d sing
this song and pump my rusty swing,
till every bottle left the wall,
then start da capo (it was all
or nothing) in a voice, though small,
as if the magic chant might bring
my father walking back to me.
Links:
[1] https://www.ablemuse.com/v7/poetry/bob-watts/remnants-nature-our-lives?s=01aae54bc3a5bba3599c6f84680fd1de
[2] https://www.ablemuse.com/v7/poetry/catherine-chandler/wing-stroke?s=01aae54bc3a5bba3599c6f84680fd1de