By Frank C. Modica
After I eat a plate of pasta with clams,
lean back, pat my stomach,
say “that hits the spot,”
my daughters roll their eyes.
“Dad,” they moan, “that’s so old,”
as if I’m a vernacular dinosaur,
but I’m not shooting at a distant
bulls-eye with a bow and arrow.
My vision isn’t so good these days
so I’d probably miss the mark.
No, I’m holding onto something
I love before it’s gone.
—
Frank C. Modica is a retired teacher from Urbana, Illinois. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Brussels Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, and Adelaide Literary Magazine. Frank’s first chapbook, What We Harvest, was published in 2021 by Kelsay Books. He can be found at https://www.frankmodicawriting.net