Now grown, in a dripping wet house
of my own,
being plumber and father combined,
why don't we have love
most all of the time?
Note: This page will make more sense if you
have read My House Was Always
Wet, which precedes this page in the cycle.
from Son of a Poet
poem © Copyright 1986 and 1999 by Joe Cottonwood
drawing © Copyright 1986 by Shirley Bortoli
Next: To
Somebody