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The Old Cardinal
Mike Delliquadri

“Bama,” reads my red, ripped, knitted cap, blushing with its own embarrassment,
white stringy ball on top.

“Throw it out,” shouts my son.
“Wax the car with it,” cries my daughter.
“So old and so silly,” moans my wife.

They laugh and laugh again.
Scarlet hat perched upon my head makes them laugh, better than any joke I say at dinner.

“What’s so old and silly,” I protest.
“That old cardinal that smacks his head unto our casement window
each summer, just to let us know he’s there.”

 

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