Roadpost

Abbie and I are headed to Florida to sell some of the gifts we got, like a monkey butler (not housetrained), a Johnny Cookin' Home Meth Lab (already have one), and a fondue set (so nineties). Abbie's folks will be staying nearby so we'll visit with them for a few days, too.

We miss Rocky, but are happy that he's with his Real Mom and friends at Southern Animal Foundation. While I was there dropping him off, a lady came in off the street because she had seen me walk in with him and he was just so darn cute. She pulled her car over. I was proud of him (isn't that funny? ...after a week) but also a little sad at the continuing realization that he will undoubtedly be adopted for good very soon.

There hasn't been much of photographic interest today, or maybe just not enough free attention span to notice it, what with all the packing and interstating. Here are a few from Yesterday.

Dad opens something as the Elf goes for her next item:


Jack gets/ignores plenty of help with his new Trash Truck:


And here's a being-away-from-home poem, one which I feel a happy distance* from.



Where are Men When they're Not at Home?



Different places.

Some are out at the barn checking on the mare that's about to foal.
I know, not many now.
A few.

Some are running down to the corner store to pick up something they forgot.
Be right back.

Some are in offices practicing pitches. Spiels.

Some are phoning from offices—saying they'll be late.

Of course, many are dead.
You suddenly think about them because you're back where you haven't been in 20 years and go to look them up.
But they're not there.
Just some widows.

But most are way off somewhere searching for fathers who were never home enough.



Reid Bush



From What You Know. © Larkspur Press.

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* "Happy distance" thanks to Festive Dad: