Dad kept Coors Light in the garage fridge
he let us try it once, we begged
for that sip—cool, crisp, lost on us kids
Those days we wrestled him after work
His palms played dayyy-o, dayyyyy-o
on my belly. I giggled like my son does
when his stomach is my drum
I sing softly just to him, wondering
if he’ll remember my words
if I’ll know him long enough
for him to buy me a drink
or if his memory will be a sip of beer
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