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| Theodore Roethke |
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| My Papaīs Waltz | ||||
| The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My motherīs countenance Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head With palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt. |
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