I Got 99 Bottles, But a Bathroom Ain't One

When I was a boy,

a little boy, but not that little,

my dad took me to a conference,

a dental conference.

They had snacks, and pop.

We never had pop, soda pop

at home.

So it was a big deal.

I drank, and drank,

and had to pee.

I gotta go! I told my dad.

Okay, I'll take you…can

you hold on just a few more minutes?

Okay. I thought I could;

I couldn't.

Geyser, spreading stain,

map of urine spreading across

my pants,

Delaware to Texas in a heartbeat.

Mortified, I tugged at him,

surrounded by his peers and

colleagues and all the adults and cool cats in polo shirts

and 1982 ties.

Him,

mortified?

I have no idea,

but he dropped what he

was doing, without

censure or beratement,

wrapped his sport coat around

me;

me, old enough to have not 

done what I did,

and he never, not once, not

even a little, not ever did he 

ever

make me feel small,

or stupid.

He held me; that

is what I needed,

and it never happened

again.

I was older than this.