She doesn’t appreciate me
that much I know.
Little as I understand
of what goes on in that pocked head of hers
I can see
she understands me no better
and makes less effort to try.

When she hears me on drums
in the garage
with the other Cool Dads
she covers her ears
and runs to her shuttered room
as quick as jack flash.
She can’t get away fast enough.

She doesn’t see
it makes me young
while she and her sisters
are killing me softly.
She doesn’t get
that our cover songs
our earnest approximations of yesterday’s hits
are attempts to stay in touch
with youth culture.
She doesn’t believe
that the band exists to keep us closer.
She doesn’t believe
I do it for her.

Well, for her
and the beer
and for me
and the boys
and a chance to have something
that they can’t trample on.
She doesn’t see any of that.

She is too embarrassed.
But hopefully
she won’t poison the little ones
or the wife.
If the missus doesn’t let me have that 120 minutes every week
I don’t think that I could make it.