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Dad Jokes; Oenophilia by K.R. Wilson

Dad Jokes

consider the dad joke:

a corny response to a

trivial ambiguity

(hi hungry, i’m dad ),

itself now the butt

(don’t say it ) of its own

genre of jokes

the real butt of course

being dad himself, hair

thinning, eyes dimming,

recalling laughter of children

for whom they were once



no qualifier

belly-chuckles, glowing

admiration i am loved i am

loved life whizzing

(don’t say it ) past his

reluctance to notice

the sense of humour,

proxy for the child,


so when you say,

as you tell me about your day,

that you went to the bank

and got a haircut,

depend on me to say

I didn’t know

they cut hair

at the bank.

my dad would’ve laughed.


Pity the poor wine writer,

whose talk of stone fruit and minerality

is such an easy target for mockery

a docile focal length, with

top notes of whale bone and a

hint of elm pollen in the

middle distance, haw haw—

when they,

like poets,

are just trying to capture

the uncapturable

in the clunky box of language.


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