Keep smiling, Dad

He’s 83 years, my dad.

He’s sometimes good and sometimes bad.

But, really he’s the only dad I’ve had.

He hides things now. For a living. Almost.

His keys. His wallet. His television remote controls.

“So’s nobody can pinch them,” he says.

“Y’know. When they sneak in during the night.”

They work on a nearby construction sight. The invisible five, unknown to the police.

He’s beaten men in the past.

But somehow that beat wasn’t meant to last.

He sits on his teeth, sometimes.

I think he’s trying to keep them warm.

And once they were in his bed.

Top and bottom set.

But they weren’t his, he said.

I worry he’ll bite himself on the bum, eventually.

The woman died one night… gave the paramedics a fright.

Sirens and blue lights everywhere.

Only… there was no one there.

Nothing’s ever there.

Or ever pinched.

Not even the lifeless body of the unknown woman.

She’s known to the police, because he tells them about her whenever he calls them.

It’s all false.

The teeth.

The alarms.

The works.

So that proves it’s true.

Like Donald Trump. My dad keeps smiling.

Wherever his teeth are, they smile!