On cross country road trips, my father sang,
old songs he made us learn at least to hum,
my mother snapping along in the front seat,
their daughter untethered in the back.
He sang Oh, Susanna, he sang There’s a Hole
in the Bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza,
he sang Maybellene (why can’t you be true?),
songs with pet names for all of us.
Today I’ve sprung him from Assisted Living,
a picnic in the park, then the Dog Museum.
I’ll pay to see the Huneck exhibit,
the wood cuts and chairs, admire
the exquisite porcelain Great Dane,
a harlequin. My father’s done well
with his therapy dogs, their soft coats
bring back his days of raising hounds,
a young father, before the suits and ties,
before the suburbs. He loves best the room
which houses the war dogs exhibit,
old Rin Tin Tin and the Yorkie, Smoky.

As we enter the parking lot, circle
for a spot his chair can handle,
he starts to sing, he sings Way Down Yonder
in the Land of Buttons...he sings loudly,
his voice echoes across the lot, reaches
a woman walking her whippet, she’s startled,
the dog turns toward us. My father
ignores the woman, says isn’t that the same dog
your friend had in high school? Wasn’t she the one
who died of a self-inflicted woe?
What happened to her dog? Was he sad, too?
Before I can begin to answer,
my father starts to sing, he sings This Old Man—
knick knack paddywack, give the dog a bone!
This old man came rolling home. By the time
we travel the museum’s ramp, he has sung
all ten verses, and I’m Liza again, mending.