June 16: Happy Father's Day, New Poem, New Cartoon

I want to wish all the fathers out there a happy Father's Day.  I'm taking it easy today, so all you get is a new poem and new cartoon.

Saint Marty's going to eat some bratwurst now.

Fine Print

My job as a father today
is to watch my twelve-year-old
daughter go out the front door
to play basketball with the boy
from down the street who turned
thirteen last week and looks at her
like she's a meat-lover's pizza
and he's just finished football practice.
My job as a father today
is to catch my four-year-old
son on the playground, before
he scales the slide or swings
away on the monkey bars.
Catch him, haul him inside,
pinned under my arm, him slick
as a greased piglet, thrashing,
squealing all the way to the tub,
where he spits, kicks water
until I'm baptized, head-to-foot,
with fatherhood.  Yes, it's all
in the job description.  Check the fine print,
right below the subsections about shit,
vomit, Popsicles, strep throat.
It reads, Be prepared for broken glasses,
bones, watches, windows.  For first crushes,
kisses, first erections and break-ups.
Be prepared to work overtime
for dance lessons, summer camps,
class trips to Mackinac Island,
cell phones.  Be prepared to spend
twenty-plus years getting used
to their crying, bleeding, brooding,
and the rest of your life getting used
to their leaving.  See Section 93B:
Guilt and Grandkids.

Confessions of Saint Marty