My dad loathed red nail polish, thought it slutty
claimed only women of ill repute wore it
odd because his nickname for me was Bimbo
Bimbo Bimbo pretty little Bimbo
a maritime ditty about some hooker in some port
story goes, sung in a gravelly alto Johnny Cash
would’ve thought wholesome, he pushed me on the swings
at Narrow Beck Beach my blonde hair flying, my toes
curling, squealing more Daddy higher Daddy
a man of habit he’d take off his gold signet ring beforehand
prop it on the V-dub’s windscreen wiper blade
only one time he forgot to retrieve it
the oval gold with the family insignia, an arm in armour
clutching three barbed arrows, became fodder for the
red legged gulls to pick at in the sandy drains by the ice cream kiosk
picking pecking until it lost its sheen and turned into a golden
fried potato mine mine my chip, gone
Bimbo Bimbo pretty little Bimbo
he hummed wordlessly back home
his left pinky keeping a sad empty
beat on the steering wheel