As a kind of footnote, here’s a Billy Collins’ poem I’m fond of that kind of reminds me of a lot of dads, including mine.
Kerouac was born in the same town
as my father, but my father never
had time to write On The Road
let alone drive around the country
He wrote notes for the kitchen table
and a novel of checks
and a few speeches to lullaby
businessmen after a fat lunch
and some of his writing is within
me for I house catalogues of jokes
and handbooks of advice
on horses, snow tires, women,
along with some short stories
about the deadbeats at the office,
but he was quicker to pick up
a telephone than a pen.
Like Jack, he took a drink but
beatific to him meant the Virgin Mary.
He called jazz jungle music
and he would have told Neal Cassady
to let him off at the next light.