yours a product of years of trial and error,
mine an unknown homage to my mother's father -
and we will let the bubbles pop on the fullest lips
that you (of all people) gave to me
part of me wishes you've been hoping for this moment
since my birth; the altering consciousness of the watery brew
and the laughter that ensues as you
pat me on the head - "attaboy" -
like a stiff breeze from the lake where we caught so many fish
your hand comes beating my shoulder gently
my twenty-one years, your forty-five - when you were my age
you dreamed of having a son with whom to have a beer -
perhaps a smoke too if my sisters had not
made you quit so soon
we can sink our teeth into animal flesh
and overindulge ourselves, as you taught me to
to be merry, to reward a hard-day's work
i often wonder what you would be like
if you drank brandy or cognac or wine instead
of the thin deluded brew we now share -
then i wonder what i and my sisters would be like
if you drank brandy or cognac or wine instead
(somehow i think that we would be
so utterly boring) - bottled lagers are so Midwest
and i know you wouldn't have t any other way:
wine is too west for you and stouts are far too east
but this brew, brown like that old lake water,
reminds of you those days with your grandfather
who died as i was conceived - your aunt told me
that i was sent to replace him
but you guffawed as such pressures:
not that i could not keep up with the dead
but i am your son, not your grandfather,
and you remind me daily as i bear your name
i am always your son upon introduction,
but no one can tell as we hold our bottles -
they can see it in our eyes and lips
and hear and beards, our laughter and our rages
you like Bud and i like Pabst
but sometimes beer is just beer, Dad.
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