Kitchen Slam Poetry

How 'bout that?
Man, I love home.

Two days ago I sat in the kitchen, re-reading Steinbeck's The Winter of our Discontent as everyone slowed down and got ready for bed. My dad sat across the table from me and said, "That poem you had on your blog last time, the one by Miguel Otero Silva, I loved it!"

I agreed and wondered where the conversation would go next; I can never tell. I made sure I knew what page number I left off in and closed the book.

He continued, "For a long time, I regarded Neruda's Poem #20 as the best to explain that feeling, but Silva blew him away."

"Yeah," I responded, "I love the message."

"Where did you find it?"

"There were like two lines that were on the movie The Motorcycle Diaries, and I just had to find the rest."

"You should translate it. So that girls here know what it says."

It hadn't occurred to me, that not only girls but anyone reading it that didn't know Spanish would be lost. He continued, "Have you ever heard Testamento Gaucho (A Gaucho's Will)?"

"No," I replied. He then started reciting it by memory. I thought to myself, so cool! He hasn't seen it in years! I quickly googled it on my phone, and gave it to him so he could recite it more accurately.

What followed was an hour of poetry, back-and-forth, between my dad and me. It was beautiful.

The only reason we finished was because my dad had to work. I wished he didn't.