Arse Poetica

"I don't know about poetry,"
dad would mumble when
books of verses stumbled
somehow into his house.

As awkward as an adolescent
he'd amble by and catch me
reading, at night, while dangling
from living room couch ledges.

"Sentimental trash," he'd say,
or, "Mostly for fairies and pansies."
He'd wince and, unasked for,
gift me with disapproving glances.

"Be careful," he began.
"You read too much of that
and turn out queer." And as he left
I know he meant to ask:

"Are you going to stop reading?
Are you going to turn queer?"

And I didn't.
And I did.
And I keep it secret that verses
now stumble out of me.