By Ben Riggs
His feet leapt inches from God-given ground.
His smile was toothy, laugh snapped toothy joy.
His head—his heart—his head was tightly wound:
A big, rambunctious, six-two little boy.
His smile was toothy, laugh snapped toothy joy.
He slipped us all wet-willies Christmas Eves.
A big rambunctious, six-two little boy
who spilled his heart so sloppily on his sleeves.
He slipped us all wet-willies Christmas Eves.
He’d quick cuss-out a golf ball, whip a club.
He spilled his heart so sloppily on his sleeves.
He made the floorboards shake with every flub.
He’d quick cuss-out a golf ball, whip a club.
My uncle operated in extremes.
He made the floorboards shake with every flub.
He looped rope through the basement ceiling beams.
My uncle operated in extremes.
His neck—his heart—his neck was tightly bound.
He looped rope through the basement ceiling beams.
His feet swept inches from God-given ground.