for dad

When I say, “I knew this would happen,”
my mother looks like she wants to slap me.

And who could blame her.

I’m portending my father
landing in the emergency room
the very day the old dog passed
with the same certainty one might lament
a full glass toppling off a table’s edge.

Where were my minders?
I had nearly misplaced an entire continent.

I turn on the television to keep the younger dog company.

Ernest Cossart’s Irish brogue gently chastises,
“Ah, there’s a real piece of idiocy—woman’s instinct—
every slab-sided female in the world is a crystal gazer—
she’s magic. She can fore-tell the future—like a politician.”

Flustered, I grab my water bottle, recheck the emergency number.

As I wheel around before closing the door,
I see Ginger Rogers, black and white in soft focus.
She spins around at her door, facing me
and an off-camera Cossart.

All the way down the hall her plucky voice follows me,
“And don’t you worry about me  pop, cause I can take care
of myself alright! Goodbye pop!”

Jennifer Bradpiece was born and raised in the multifaceted muse, Los Angeles, California, where she still resides. Her passion is collaborating with multi-media artists on projects. Her poetry has been published in various anthologies, journals, and online zines, including Redactions, Mush Mum, and The Common Ground Review. She has poetry forthcoming in The January Review among others. Jennifer’s manuscript, Lullabies for End Times will be forthcoming in early 2020 by Moon Tide Press.