Poetry Friday: My Father

My father,
the comedian,
the short fuse on a bomb
waiting
to explode.
The workhorse,
my companion.

The sage man at the top of the hill,
to whom I resort to for advice.

Because of him,
I try to emulate his jokes,
work hard,
and try to stretch that fuse
just a little bit more
for an extra second
before it explodes.

I Walk in the Wolf Room

because everyone has to be there
just before class begins.
I proceed to our usual spot,
where they are talking about the same topics.
They complain and laugh at
events that occurred in the weekend.
I pull over a chair and place
my backpack and binder on it.
I join the conversation,
adding a comment here and there.
We where happy to see each other again,
but sad that class had begun.