His hair never grew.
Could it really be true?
For my six-year-old mind,
the sole answer it could find:

My father must be Superman,
Hiding from his raving fans.
The suit, the tie, just a disguise,
Apparel that hides and lies.

Just look at the proof,
How he acts so aloof,
like Clark Kent in glasses,
attending Catholic masses.

And how ’bout that surname?
A coverup so lame.
Superman-ley, can’t fool his son,
that Dad’s invincible to guns.

I told my teacher: He can’t die,
that he flies high, high in the sky,
sees through walls,
and breaks up brawls.

But now that Dad’s older,
his hair’s much bolder;
it does grow long,
so I guess I was wrong.

Instead of super strength,
he daily cut the length,
of his curly white locks.
Barbers he did mock!

Yes, maybe I was a wee bit mad,
but he’s nonetheless a Super-Dad.
He’d take us swimming and biking,
Mini-golfing and hiking,

Sometimes he was tough,
And that could be rough,
Ten commandments he waved,
So our souls would be saved.

Faster than a scolding train,
He wouldn’t let us live in vain.
And so kept a moral compass,
Always pointing north before us.

Poet’s Note: Photo taken Father’s Day, 2021,
of Dad, my son Jonah and myself. If you enjoyed that poem,
you may also enjoy last year’s: COVID Breakout