Poemsy poemsy

It's the end of the month. Always a very special time. Time to DONATE (books? to the library? to Africa? to your friends?) in the spirit of giving, instead of fearing collapsing into poverty! (Right before rent and a lot of the bills are due.) A poem from one of the books (which is an English Literature reader and I think it is headed for the library):

Coke by Philip Dacey (Fun bio pic!{ture}!)

I was proud of the Coca-Cola stitched in red / on the pocket of my dad's shirt, / just above his heart. / Coca-Cola was America / and my dad drove its truck.

I loved the way the letters curved, / like handwriting, something personal, / a friendly offer of a drink / to a man in need. Bring me your poor, / your thirsty.

And on every road I went, faces / under the sign of Coke smiled down / out of billboards at me. We were all / brothers and sisters in the family / of man, our bottles to our lips, / tipping our heads back to the sun.

My dad lifted me up when he came home, / his arms strong from stacking / case after case of Coke all day. A couple of / cold ones always waited for us in the kitchen.

I believed our President and my dad / were partners. My dad said someday Coke / would be sold in every country of the world, / and when that happened there would be / no more wars. "Who can imagine," he asked, / "two people fighting while they swig their Cokes?" / I couldn't. And each night before sleep, / I thanked God for my favorite drink.

When I did, I imagined him tilting the bottle / up to his heavenly lips, a little Coke / dribbling down his great white beard.

And sometimes I even thought of his / son on the cross, getting vinegar / but wanting Coke. I knew that if I / had been there, I would have handed a Coke / up to him, who would have figured out / how to take it, even though his hands / were nailed down good, because he was God. / And I would have said when he took it, / "That's from America, Jesus. I hope you / like it." And then I'd have watched, / amidst the thunder and lightening / on that terrible hill, Jesus' Adam's apple / bob up and down as he drained the bottle / in one long divine swallow / like a sweaty player at a sandlot game / between innings, the crucial ninth / coming up next.

And then the dark, sweet flood / of American sleep / sticky and full of tiny bubbles, / would pour over me.