character sketch: curmudgeon emeritus

or, The Danish Crisis

My father has become a character,
a caricature, a cause of mirth, plus
consternation. His diet, if you would
call it that, is horrid. His attitude,
even worse. Breakfast takes a champion,
a real saint figure, to finesse. I am
retired from this. Everyone else, gets hell.

Dad loves donuts, and a lot of pastry.
Dad eats donuts, pastry, exclusively,
or close enough, for all of us. I try
to not comment, forbear, ignore, what not.
This is real work, and grueling, and my job.
Dying is arduous on all parties, and
common wisdom says to eat dessert first.

He must have heard this, and to heart taken.
If only this was all, would be easy.
He has even more preferences, still.
Not just a danish. A cherry one: no
apple, no cheese, God no raspberry, not
anything with seeds. Just you try, dare try,
in town to buy ONLY cherry ones, now.

You can't! impossible! In Soviet
sense of word! Danishes are sold boxed up,
three types, two per, six bucks. unworkable.
Such a lose. The household is swamped with stale,
inedible and awful, rejected
carbohydrate. Imperiousness is
unworkable: commerce vs curmudgeon.

So, all get briefed. Danish Situation,
like rookie diplomatic corps. Temper
erupts, and long memory is invoked
on any that come between elder and
coffee-time preference. I can't keep up.
I have resigned. The kitchen table is
stacked with half filled plastic clam shells, hopeless.

Maybe someday, I'll miss this. Meanwhile, at
least I have witnesses, galore. When we
memorialize him, we will have much
to say. And much of it will amuse us.
And we will most likely not eat danish,
And we will most likely miss him, despite,
And we will drink our coffee black, not sweet.