Birthday poem from my son, the nurse

Little Wendell was a solemn tike

begat somewhere out west.
With baseball cards, accordions,

and sheep he was the best.
He’d strut around the family farm,

whacking livestock with his bat
But now Little Wendell’s sixty

and his strut’s a little flat.

Young Man Wendell was a charming gent.
A brash, athletic stud.
His glee club years of swooning

were a grand hormonal flood.
He’d dress up like a jungle man
and scream to get them hot
But Young Man Wendell’s sixty,
and most everyone’s forgot.

Father Wendell had some offspring
All sired in decades past
He dreamed of making teams of boys
All fit and strong and fast.
Now Father Wendell’s sixty
and he’s short of hair and purse
His daughters all were dancers
and his son became a nurse.

Grandpa Wendell’s skills are varied
He knits and slurps his jell-o.
He sings and farts and lives through strokes
And tells his neighbors, “hello.”
He guards young girls from ATVs
With his warfarin-riddled flesh.
He’s married now for thirty nine years
And I think he still gets fresh.

Yes, Grandpa Wendell’s sixty now,
And no longer needs a comb.
And though he’ll sometimes lose his keys
He’s not ready for the home.
Ten grandkids love him dearly
He has grace and wit and class
You can tell that Grandpa’s sixty
By his spry but wrinkled ass.

- Jonathan Tolman

16 Feb 2012

Happy Birthday, Dad